


stuff your eyes with wonder

by sadaf



Category: Chaos Walking - Patrick Ness
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadaf/pseuds/sadaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. " - F451, Bradbury</p><p> a mapping out of ben and cillian and their relationship, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stuff your eyes with wonder

**Author's Note:**

> I change everyones age a bit- todd is implied 15 (earthwise) at the beginning of knife and davys 16.5  
> ben and cillian are 21-22 when they land on New World, are 24 when they take todd in, so like, almost 40 by the time knife starts. 
> 
> theres one brief drugs scene, and minor allusions to nsfw things 
> 
> THANK YOU LAURA FOR THE BETA
> 
> anyways Todd Hewitt should date me, this is dedicated to syd & nez, my mom and grandma. enjoy

First off, they all get uniforms. It doesn’t matter in particular that they’re originally country folk, and it definitely doesn’t matter that they’ve all been cryogenically frozen for a near 63 years. Every single passenger- cargo, really, to the captain of the ship- has to be documented and maintained for last year before the ship touches down on New World.

Haircuts are regulated (not that much grew in the state of hibernation) once everyone is fully conscious and defrosted. They take a shower (exactly six minutes long), get in the uniform (black cotton button up, silver-grey nylon pants, same for everyone), complete an interview with a Caretaker family to make sure the sleeping chemicals didn’t mess much with their brains and then settle in the main room to debrief on their new jobs aboard the ship and the time countdown till landing.

Ben is in the middle of tugging on his pants when it dawns on him that sixty-three years have passed since boarding. Sixty-three whole years. If he hadn’t been frozen, he’d be as old as his grandfather, nearly. He briefly wonders how things are back on Earth; He had gotten on the roster for the initial move as willingly as the next hopeful farmer, waving good-bye to his parents and uncles and aunts and the smoky mustard-brown soil and the gritty oily water and the salespeople who just kept getting better at tricking the simple folk into selling over plots of land until nothing was left to farm, really.

Of course, he wasn’t leaving without familiar faces. Though he didn’t frequent church all that often, he had recognized Aaron’s name on the roster. The Boyds and the O’Connelly’s-  the latter being long time friends of his family, whose daughter he got along with well. Well enough to have had gotten his mother’s hopes up, which was a painfully embarrassing situation to clear up.  He ran through the list of family names in his head: Collins, MacInerny, O’Hare, Morgan, Hammar, Hewitt… all people he got along with, at least to a polite degree. Later, when he scans the roster that’s plastered across the hullroom, he can pluck out more: the Royals, the Gaults, Michaels, and van Wijks; the Phelps, the Baldwins, the Foxes, the Turners. Caretaker families were a given to be known, of course: The Elizabeths and the Prentisses. They only need two on account of being such a small ship.

He wonders oftentimes that if there was a window of sorts that he could use to look outside, if he’ll see the other steely ships, all silently moving forward like an armada towards the New World. The name for New World was disappointingly plain, but, he reasons, farmers aren’t writers. He can only hope their own settlement that will hatch out of the ship will be more creatively christened.

Not every member of each family is present, only bits and pieces save for the Caretakers. He and one aunt are the only Moores aboard. The O’Connelly daughter- Mary- and her fiancé, Jacob Hewitt, are the sole representatives from their respective families. A grandfather here, a niece there- they are expected to make new family unto themselves as per course of the new life.

No one under twelve is present on board, as regulation forbids it. The work involved in caring for toddlers and young children would only have gotten in the way of the preparations necessary for landing. They also wouldn’t be able to assist in building the new town when time came, so were declared useless. Which, Ben thinks mildly, is a bit of a negative way to put it.

Beyond that, he also has severe doubts about being a progenitor, but he tries not to think of that too often.

***

They need to take some mandatory classes on the plan of action once they land. Find a water source, start the foundations of a shelter, mark the area and scan for predators. Begin a layout plan and eventually start hunting wildlife and breeding the domesticated animals brought along ship.

Later Aaron suggests that perhaps building a church should be in these preliminary steps, and everyone in lecture guiltily exchange looks.

Besides classes doing quick run-throughs of various terrains, identifying poisonous plants and potentially dangerous wildlife, they’re taught basic emergency medical training, and have to start cooking for themselves now that all their digestive systems aren’t iced over anymore. There are people to clean after others, people assigned to do intensive training for how to care for farm animals in the different atmosphere and terrascape, kitchen workers and so on. Generally just jobs to keep the ship running smoothly as it draws closer to the intended target and switches over from automatic to manual.

Ben is biting his lip and considering his new job- _quarter cleaner_ , tidying up the halls and little cells of the passengers- projected on the hullroom wall, when he hears surefooted stomping some distance behind him, accompanied by grumbling and rude words. He turns and it’s what he suspected: a blustery Cillian Boyd, eyebrows drawn heavily over his eyes and hands clenched, moving towards the listed jobs.

“Cillian?” he exclaims in his soft voice.

Cillian turns to him, face clearing for a moment before looking surprised. “I- Ben!”

They gawp at each other for a few moments before Cillian breaks out in a smile, moves over to him and brings him into a gruff hug. “I _knew_ you were aboard this ship, I figured, I had asked yer ma if you were and you were on the roster, I was wonderin’ when we’d run into each other…”

“Nice to see you too,” says Ben, grinning.

Cillian had been his working partner on the fields when he was nineteen and had been trying to get some farmhand experience outside his own Da’s place. They’d gotten along, moving bales of hay and tending to the animals from seven in the morning to noon, when they’d sit in the barnhouse that smelt of sweaty animals and honeyed hay and have a quiet lunch.

Then they’d work again from one to six in the crops, until break time, lie down in the clean grass in the cool evening air, smoking lazily from a pipe between the two of them for an hour more before retiring to their respective homes.

After the apprenticeship had ended, they were friends besides. Cillian was perhaps one of the few people on board his age who he knew well, barring Mary- in fact, Ben had been the one to convince Cillian to make the trip itself, one night when he and Cillian and Jacob and a whole bunch of other folk’s names he forgets now were sneaking out late into town to smoke under the park bridge.

“What got you all rattled up just now?” Ben asks politely after a moment.

Cillian looks at him, scowling as he remembers. “My job. It’s… well, it’s taking care of the animals they just went and thawed.”

“You mean the ones we’re gonna use for farming?” Ben asks. “Why, that’s not too bad, probably comes easy to all of us here.”

“No, I mean I’m a _quarter cleaner_.”

Ben just stares at him and Cillian cracks a smile, and then they both end up guffawing a bit once Ben _gets_ it gets it.

“Yer a harsh man, Boyd,” he says, shaking his head.

Cillian shrugs. “Yeah, well, we’re going into a harsh world.”

\--

Quarter cleaners work in pairs that rotate randomly, going into rooms onboard that the passengers have temporarily settled in and dusting and washing to make sure that no disease gets spread. The place needs to be sterile on account of being a closed environment. Everyone breathes the same recycled air. It would be a biological time-bomb if infected.

Ben adds this to another list of reasons he can’t wait to get to New World, where he can maybe catch a breath of real fresh air and not have to worry much about if he catches some bug. He misses real life. Being on the ship doesn’t feel very real. (Being on Earth didn’t feel much real either except for every once in a while.)

They have a ship population of about five-hundred and about one hundred quarter cleaners, meaning one pair of cleaners need to clean ten rooms between them every day. Given that the rooms are real small and that it’s a daily task, it can go fairly quickly, be done in about four or five hours. The rest of the days are mealtimes, some schooling lessons, and about three hours of free time besides before bed at “nine.”

Time is inconsequential and hard to measure on a spaceship, so they could be calling three in the afternoon nine for all they know is what Cillian thinks.  Ben shrugs at any rate and falls asleep when told, not caring much if it’s three or not.

\--

The way Jessica Elizabeth- the most collected and capable Caretaker- assigns the cleaning pairs has Ben and Cillian seeing each other more often than most, though they’re both perfectly fine with that.

They joke together, more than anything.

“Well, granted, there isn’t much else to talk about,” says Ben. “I’ve known you for almost all my life, and known you well for three years. What secrets do we have?”

They both have secrets from each other, but certain locked boxes have timers to go off first.

Ben thinks of that time he and Cillian snuck out from work at the farm to swim in the creek a bit off and how they’d come back with mosquito bites all over their backs and they’d agreed to scratch each other’s and how they both found this hilarious, Cillian laughing, “I’ll scratch yer back if you scratch mine, literally,” and Ben bent over, gasping for breath, but then thirty minutes later they discovered they had throbbing poison ivy rashes all over their feet, and suddenly the matter was much less humorous.

Ben begins, “Remember that time we went sw-”

“Yes,” says Cillian before the sentence is even out, “Yes, I do.”

Ben thinks, _Well, I was right, not a lot to discuss after all_.

\--

A few things about Cillian: he walks angrily. Even if he’s not. It’s just the way he sets forth and hunches up his shoulders and plods around like something’s soured his milk. Ben used to think it was because of the big lace-up Wellingtons Cillian wore when they were on the farm together, but he realizes Cillian could be in bunny slippers and still manage to pace like the weight of the world is on him.

He also almost always frowning a bit. It seems to be his resting face. Furrowed brows, vaguely pursed lips. Ben doesn’t think he means anything by it, it’s just how his face is, but that doesn’t stop others from getting a little nervous around him. Ben finds surprisingly that he sees very little of this face when they work together, though.

He barks more than talks and has wide shoulders and his hair is dark and wavy but got cropped to his ears for the regulated haircut. It used to be to his shoulders, and when they worked on the farm together he’d had to put it up in a little ponytail behind his head, which Ben had found endearing. He has a straight nose and big hands and dark crescents under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in forever but really it’s just his genes because Ben has seen him sleep before during a rainstorm when he had to stake out at Cillian’s since his house was too far from the farm and Cillian slept soundly through thunder and lightning and torrents of rain, and didn’t so much as stir until six AM exactly.

He has a loud laugh that Ben has had the privilege of hearing often. Ben comes to regard the laugh as a bit of gratification for a well-placed sarcastic remark. It’s almost a trophy to attain in every conversation. The laugh itself isn’t musical in any definition of the word, but it’s as sincere as they come.

Cillian doesn’t think much before he speaks. There’s a bare minimum of an editing screen between his mind and mouth. He can be rude and abrasive when in a mood (very often) and has a fondness for hugging but won’t admit it. He can’t sing too well, but does on occasion when he’s bored.

He eats quickly. He’s distinctly uncomfortable around the younger teenagers on board, even though he’s only twenty-two. He has a little sister who stayed behind on Earth who he misses often and has a picture of in his bedside drawer. He hates the on-board pen for the animals (“inhumane, disrespectful as all hell”) and doesn’t mention a gal of his own once.

Ben, thinking dolefully of his mother- dead, now, he supposes- tries to take his own advice and not get his hopes up.

\--

“I don’t like this,” Ben says, taking in the lab spread out in front of him.

“What, too new-tech for you, Moore?” teases Cillian. His voice sounds forcibly lighthearted.

The joke is even country hicks like themselves have all been exposed to some of the most advanced technology humanity has to offer. They willingly have regressed from it for the sake of what they think is a simpler life, but it’s not like Ben doesn’t know how to operate the touchscreen grocery shopping, not like Cillian can’t fix and toggle with a broken code that’s glitching up movie interactional- simulators. School itself was mainly taught through old, donated computer tablets that were HD, ran smoothly and efficiently, barely whirring. No, being a hick really didn’t mean what it used to mean.

“Nah,” says Ben, peering at the transparent blue liquid in beakers that’s supposed to sludge up their blood to keep their body dormant, and at yellowed iodine kept in eyedroppers in the back, for the purpose of retaining their eyes.

He looks at the diagram on the wall, specifying how each of their hibernation units is going to look, where they’re going to be stored on the ship, how the freezing process works. “Nah, that’s not the problem at all.”

\--

Now a few things about Ben: He speaks gently. It’s almost quiet, but not the type of quiet because the speaker’s trying to hide but the type that’s considerate and pretty to hear even if you technically can’t hear it. He walks the same way. Not tip-toeing or anything, just… gently. Like he doesn’t want to inconvenience the ground much and each step is deliberate and slow. He cleans meticulously and praises others easily, wanting to make sure they’re appreciated.

He gets antsy every time he and Cillian have to wash through bedside drawers out of fear they’ll run into something private or dislodge something important. He has a real respectful look he gives people when they talk to him, assuring them he’s listening to every word they say. He has a kind smile and curly brown hair and big ol’ doe eyes and sometimes sways to music only he can hear.

His voice is earnest and everything about the way he stands says that he’s open to talk and wants to make friends. He’s tripped over himself running to help out people who drop their papers in classes, and is always willing to whisper the correct answer to someone when they’re surprise-questioned by the teacher.

He has a rounded cupid’s bow and a good deal of freckles and ties his sweatpants on tight and neat. He knows a lot of children’s lullabies and origami and simple magic tricks. He has the sweetest singing voice that Cillian has ever heard, but he gets embarrassed by it and chuckles self-consciously if approached on the subject.

He looks like he’s waiting to get out in the crops as soon as possible and he’s more patient than anyone in Cillian’s family and his hands are warm like he’s been lying in the sun all day. He kisses Mary O’ Connelly, soon-to-be Hewitt on the cheek with real love every time he sees her at dinner and laughs with her easily. When he thinks no one’s looking, he makes pretend surprised faces and waggling eyebrows while pointing to her stomach under the table. Mary slaps his hand away and blushes while Ben laughs good-naturedly.

For Cillian, this does pique a certain curiosity about what would happen if at dinner he and Ben sat next to each other, and Ben’s hand was under the table, but doing completely different things. He finds the line of thinking agreeable. Perhaps too agreeable, even, and he excuses himself from the mess hall early that night.

\--

They’re lying in a field of minty grass and the sky is so dark and overwhelming, he can barely make out the silhouette of Cillian beside him and they’re arm to arm.

It smells weird. The open field’s next to a landfill so half the time it stinks like rot and chemicals, but sometimes a breeze runs through, a gust of fresh moist air, that Ben’s quick to inhale and try to trap inside his body, hoping that it’ll transfuse into his blood.

“Ben,” says a nineteen year old Cillian, patronizing, carefree. “No, Ben, you do that when you have the _herb_ , it won’t work with regular air.” He laughs, loudly, as if he’s made a magnificent point.

Ben lets out an unimpressed sound, pulls the joint out of Cillian’s hands, and takes a hard drag.

“Why do you still use the traditional stuff?” Cillian asks him after they’ve stared at the sky for long enough that all the stars are disappearing and it’s just an expanse of black. Ben’s tried to explain that it has something to do with the rods and cones in their eyes, which Cillian thought was a sign that they’d overdone the weed.

“Hm?” says Ben. His chest feels warm, like sizzling butter on a pan, or a monsoon that’s just begun, the rush of _finally, finally_ that comes with the warm sheets of rain.

“You always use the old kind of pot.”

Ben blinks. Marijuana had been legalized in South Carolina only ten years ago, but of course, the government was insistent on selling safer, more stable weed. Genetically altered cannabis that wouldn’t do a number on your lungs.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” he explains. “I don’t like the government regulated stuff.”

“I think you mean you don’t like the government, period.”

“Does anyone?”

“Well, it’s illegal,” says Cillian after two minutes of silence, in which he forgot the question. He takes the joint back. “And you know, you know it’s hurting us, from the inside, messes up the pulmonary system something awful.”

“Mm,” says Ben. He thinks of injections, and corrupted systems, and scientists making big statements about new planets, and the fact that Cillian probably learned what ‘pulmonary’ meant maybe two days ago and is trying to look intellectual.

By the time he turns again, Cillian’s asleep.

\--

The problem for Cillian, present-Cillian, is that he doesn’t know who Ben is, in a very specific sense. Country religious farmer people, the whole lot of this ship. Though times have changed, there’s still not welcoming arms about those kinda relationships. He has no idea how Ben would react to the question, “Are you gay?”

Would be be offended? Mortified? Would that be overstepping his boundaries as Ben’s friend?

He wishes, bitterly, that there was a way to just _know_ , to read Ben’s mind and not have to ask.

\--

Many of them are halfers. Ben’s half Irish, half Libyan, Cillian’s half Scottish, half Mexican. The way the world is now means a whole lotta new kinds of babies and faces and races.

Small farmtown that they lived in, though, meant that there were a damn sight lesser in biracial kids. It’s always difficult, trying to find where they fit, never American enough, or European enough, or whatever else, which meant trying to find solace in small pockets of acceptance they got.

Ben isn’t anywhere near white looking. He ends up spending a lot of time with others who don’t look white, either, and doesn’t mention he’s half Irish ‘cause if you’re a bit related you’re pinned as guilty as the rest of the whites. If they notice the poetic Dublin-esque lilt that sneaks out into his voice on occasion, they don’t say anything.

Cillian Boyd is another matter. His name- well, it doesn’t get more Scottish than that.

“ _Nosotros descendemos de una familia de rancheros_ ,” Cillian’s mother says to him when he’s eight, but if he tries to repeat this to any of the immigrant farming kids, they smirk at his southern accent and grey eyes.

This is nearly the same reaction he gets from whites at school when he boasts, “I’m a Scot, actually, ain’t that something?”- Except then their eyes linger on coarse, black hair and skin just toeing the line between an innocuous tan and colored.

Mary falls in love with a white man, _Hewitt_ from _Hewett_ from _Huet_ from _Hew_ , a big ancestral family tree of last name derivations in Welsh. At the sight of them, adsorbed in each other in open at the town market, Ben and Cillian smile sympathetically.

\--

“Oh, someone’s been busy,” Cillian remarks dryly when they get to their last room of that day for ship-cleaning. Ben agrees; the bed’s violently rumpled, things are strewn haphazardly around the room, clothes littering the floor, and it smells like sweat. Nothing can be really confirmed until they find a pair of boxers and panties under the bed.

“Lord,” says Cillian, wrinkling his nose. “They’re teenagers, too. It says on the door plaque. I ain’t here to clean some horny kids’ adventures.”

Ben has other concerns. Sex had been banned, and for a reason. Jokes with Mary aside, they didn’t want anyone pregnant before touchdown, lest the stress and landing harmed the pregnancy. Besides that, pregnant persons also weren’t eligible to work for as long, and they needed all the effort they could get to build up a new town.

“A knocked up teenager is the last thing we need,” Ben sighs. “No one can engage in intercourse, no one can procreate while onboard. It’s right there, in the hullroom. Poor pup’s bound to get pregnant, there ain’t no contraceptives being passed around as far as I know… damn it. Should we report this?”

Cillian walks over to the dustbin, eyes it suspiciously, and shakes his head. “Nah. These kids are gonna get more trouble than it’s worth, and- well. Dunno about you, but there’s a used condom in here.”

“Oh,” says Ben.

“Besides,” Cillian continues, grabbing the broom from their cart, “Not all ugly-bumping pops out babies.”

Ben frowns in confusion. “You mean like if one’s sterile?”

“No, I mean if the bits are…”

“Oh. OH,” responds Ben. There’s a long pause, and then both him and Cillian starts sniggering.

“Yeah, yer not wrong,” Ben agrees once he’s recovered. “Look at us, a coupla grown men giggling over sex.”

“Should stop gigglin’ and start having, I reckon,” says Cillian, leering.

Ben stiffens. Obviously Cillian didn’t mean… well. It was probably just unfortunate wording.

“It _has_ been a long time,” Ben mumbles as he gingerly picks up the discarded clothing from the floor. Cillian leans against the broom, thoughtful look on his face.

“Can’t be less than 63 years, technically. So yeah, a very long time.”

“No need to point that out, Boyd,” Ben says, laughing. He tosses the clothing into the laundry bin and sets off to do the bed.

“I’m not saying I’m not in the same boat, _Moore_ ,” replies Cillian, drawling out the last name. He tilts his head, smirks. “Got anyone you have yer eyes set on?”

Ben glances at him so quickly that Cillian almost doesn’t catch it. He does, however, see the flush travelling up his chest and neck.

“I dunno, it’s not worth considerin’ yet if we can’t…”

“Oh, so yer only in it for the down and dirty stuff?” jokes Cillian.

“No, of course not, I, I just don’t wanna take a chance with a baby, y’know?”

Cillian looks considering. “So not interested in the type without the kid poppin’ up?”

A gap of time occurs in which Ben tries to not lose his voice with the next sentence. “I might be … interested. Are, uh, are you?”

Truth be told, Cillian had not expected that answer. Suddenly it becomes very difficult to be playful about the whole matter.

“I mean, uh, yeah. But I didn’t mean it like- as in- like you said, it’s not just the down and dirty stuff that I. You know.” He clears his throat sheepishly. “I don’t wanna be anything less than, say, how that Hewitt and Mary are.”

Ben nods and finishes tucking in the sheets while Cillian stands uneasily to the side, twiddling his thumbs. Finally, he responds: “How about you, though?”

Cillian starts. “What do you mean?”

“Anyone yer set on?”

He tries not to look too nervous. “What if I am?”

“Am…?”

“Set on someone?”

Ben peers at him meaningfully, and says, “Then you should try yer chances with them.”

They don’t speak or joke around as much for the rest of that workday. In lieu, however, there is a whole slew of accidental touches and sly glances, enough to convince Cillian to murmur, “Maybe swing by my room tonight,” to Ben right before he scurries off to the mandatory classes and prays he didn’t completely misinterpret what had just transpired.

\--

Ben shows up five minutes late, which is five whole minutes of anxiety on Cillian’s part. But then he’s there, sitting awkwardly on his deskside chair while Cillian is on the bed and even though Cillian’s thought about this exact scenario about fifty times in the past day he’s now unsure of what to say or how to act.

Ben clears his throat. “How- uh- how long have you known that yer…” He gestures at the air. “You know.”

Cillian picks at his nails, turns away and keeps his gaze fixed on the lamp on the bedside. “I was fourteen when I figured. There was this boy, at school… nothing happened, obviously. But I knew I wasn’t looking at him like I was s’posed to. Didn ‘t tell my Pa, told my Ma only a month before I got onboard. She didn’t know what to think. Doesn’t matter now, I guess, she’s probably already gone… How about you, though?”

Ben is jiggling his left leg on the ground and Cillian finds it simultaneously annoying and distracting ‘cause it makes him look at the hemline up the curve of Ben’s thigh and the way the nylon folds over his knee and up and up and-

“I was, uh, eighteen or thereabouts. It’s funny, Mary helped me figure…”

Cillian raises his eyebrows. “O’Connelly? Had a bad run in the hay with her?”

“Nothing like that!” Ben exclaims, shaking his hands, getting up. He settles himself beside Cillian on the bed, lost in thought.

“It’s just… we were spending a lot of time together and she asked me if I was interested in her ‘cause she was willing to be something and I told her no ‘cause I didn’t like her in that way, don’t get me wrong, I love her to death but it ain’t like… Well. She said that was fine and asked if I fancied another lady and I said no, I’d never really been that curious and I don’t know why and she said that maybe it’s ‘cause I could fancy men and I had never thought about it like that and then I did and turns out she was right.”

He smiles thinly, remembering it. He had left out the part where when Mary had first asked him if he had an affinity for men, he had replied with offense, “Of course not, do I look like some kind of sinner?”

And Mary had stared at him with her pretty brown eyes and they were searching and Ben had tightly gripped the grass underneath them and felt all out-of-sorts and Mary had said calm as you’d please, “Moore, love is a lot of things, but you’re a damned _fool_ if you think it a sin,” and that was that.

He realizes Mary had probably had her own share of places where her affections- requited or not- were banned. Folk didn’t want those from the Reservations to mix in with the traditional farm people (However, it doesn’t really do to point out the Natives were there farming far earlier).

Cillian nods as if he’s heard what Ben hasn’t said. “And yer Ma and Pa, did they…?”

“No. I think they ‘spected it, but by the time they were ready to ask me about it I was already signing up to leave.”

“I see,” says Cillian finally, for lack of things to say.

Ben substitutes his own sentence, courageous. “You know, I really like you. A lot.”

And then he tentatively puts his hand on Cillian’s knee and looks at him like he’s looking for a signal and Cillian wants to ask _But why_ but asks “Can I kiss you?” instead and Ben goes “Oh, Jesus,” and nods and Cillian leans in and their lips slide in place and their teeth clunk a bit and Ben pulls back and says quickly “"I've never done this with a- I- sorry-" and Cillian says “It’s ok, me neither-”and they try again and it works out a lot better this time and Cillian wants to sigh right into Ben’s mouth because he feels _right_ for once in his life, like _this_ is where he belongs, _this_ is what he’s been waiting for ever since he was fourteen.

Ben pulls back after a bit and Cillian follows him on instinct, but then he makes a sound of worry. Cillian opens his eyes and he’s worrying his bottom lip, his forehead all creased up.

“What?” starts Cillian, breathless and uncertain.

“This is a bad idea,” says Ben. “We- I want to, but-”

“But?”

“It’s against the books, you know it is, what’ll Aaron think-”

“Who gives a damn about Aaron? I swear to you half the people onboard ain’t gonna care-”

“But the other half _are_ -”

“So we keep it a secret-”

“Those are hard to keep-”

“Then we’ll figure it out.” Ben just looks at him unsurely, but Cillian goes on. “It’s not like people can read our minds just by lookin’ at us.”

And then Ben goes “heh,” because it’s true, but also because he likes it when Cillian drops his g’s in conversation ‘cause it means he’s forgetting himself and his propriety and he figures it can’t hurt to try it out and so he nods shyly again in agreement and closes his mouth over Cillian’s and wonders briefly if he’s ever gonna feel satisfied again without fulfillment of these hungry kisses and then later decides he better stop thinking and just enjoy the moment.

\--

Cillian’s raging temperament doesn’t dissolve completely under Ben’s hands. Ben isn’t keeled over easily, and Cillian’s no exception to that.

“Love isn’t supposed a balancing act, it’s a synergetic one,” Ben says after their first fight since they’ve begun to see each other, rubbing his face, voice gone all quiet.

“That something yer ma told you?” Cillian responds lightning-quick. A pause. “Sorry. That was… rude.”

“Yer one hell of an ass, Boyd,” is all Ben says.

Cillian feels terrible, and for the first time in his life is compelled to apologize not only once, but twice.

Ben forgives him the second time around, and they quickly recover from it; Cillian thinks it helps that they’d fought before the kissing got involved as well.

But besides occasional tiffs they’re full to the brim with excited, sheepish attachment, learning and fumbling and succeeding with expressions of it that include sly glances at the dinner table which Mary doesn’t fail to miss and for once it’s Ben’s turn to blush but he’s smiling bigger than he has in a long time and Cillian isn’t always so cranky anymore and Ben adds this to the ever-growing list of reasons he wants to get on New World, so that he can start a real life with Cillian by his side.

Jessica Elizabeth notes that their productivity during worktime has gone down, but, with a knowing smile, continues to assign the two together.

\--

Landing is hectic but they’ve trained for it forever so it’s not as bad as it could be. The only weird thing is that everyone seems to be shouting as they walk down the ramp into Haven, shouting more than they need to, ‘cause nothing’s going wrong, so why are people still yelling?

It’s only when they realize it’s only _men’s_ voices shouting even when the mouths are shut and how there are images and feeling and colors that can’t be vocalized being tossed around that it clicks that something is awfully, awfully wrong.

Ben turns to David Prentiss, who’s the closest Caretaker to look for guidance, and the roar, the _Noise_ emanating from him is bright hot with panic and concern and worry but between all of this weaves a hint of intrigue.

Prentiss turns to him ‘cause he can probably hear his own thoughts echoing around Ben’s head like in a cave and he looks at Ben real hard and Ben can _feel_ something shifting around the thoughts in his head like well-meaning but greedy fingers all over and he makes a hoarse noise and Prentiss stops and looks shocked with himself and says “Pardon, I’m sorry, Mr. Moore-” but his noise is just fiery with revelatory pleasure so he can’t mean that apology all too much, can he?

Ben gets out a “S’alright, Mr. Prentiss,” yet his noise goes _Eff you, jackass_. Except it’s not eff, but luckily Prentiss isn’t listening too close at all.

\--

They try to proceed as they trained, moving away from Haven to New Elizabeth, hoping that the Noise was just a temporary phenomenon. Men are jumpy around other men and even jumpier around women. There is something disconcerting, violating, about having all your head pried open and thoughts laid out for others to bear, like a sloppy dissection that veered into gory disembowelment.

Ben does not feel as bad about it as he should. It’s hard to control, and he knows he stands to lose much if someone stumbles on the wrong thought, but there is a peculiar sense of familiarity and community he gains from being around truly benign Noise. Mary doesn’t shuffle around in his thoughts, he doesn’t feel it and she never notes on anything off-kilter in his Noise, only smiles brighter when his Noise is full of things like _Mary’s hair looks good in that braid_ or _This is the best pie I’ve ever had in my life, how does she do it_ or _She’s a real angel, that O’Connelly._ If Jacob Hewitt is provoked, he sure doesn’t show it, like he knows that Ben loves Mary as fully and thoroughly as he does, but in a different way. Ben knows he should probably start using Mary’s now legal last name of Hewitt, but it escapes him.

Jacob’s noise is mainly comprised of friendly, simple things, but on occasion complex judgments slip out. A fair deal of it is about Mary and a family and a future and a farm. Ben privately refers to these as the three F’s, and remembers too late that privacy as a concept had been abolished five minutes in on this planet. Jacob rolls his eyes at Ben when his noise becomes riddled with tealish guilt over it. He doesn’t say anything, but thinks, _If you knew better, there’d be four F’s. One that leads into a family._

Ben doesn’t catch on and Jacob smirks and then there’s a picture of Jacob and Mary all indecent in his head and Ben sputters and gives a nervous laugh and is violently reminded of his conversation with Cillian those few months ago on the ship.

Cillian and him make a farm next to the Hewitt’s and Ben can’t think of a better kinda situation. It’s a big enough distance from the main town that they don’t get inundated by roar of Noise, but it’s close to Mary and Jacob in case of emergency. It’s small, of course, as two-person farms have to be, but for now they’re still  just subsistence farmers, so it isn’t a matter of concern. They only really need to worry for themselves.

Cillian’s Noise is much more aggressive than Jacob’s and when they’re around other men and their Noise, it’s the worst. But when it’s just the two of them, Ben and Cillian, it calms down, less boiling and sloshing. At times it’s almost peaceful. Ben cherishes these moments, where he feels flashes of the both of them syncing into one cohesive Noise before slipping out again just as quick. Cillian doesn’t mention it but Ben can tell he likes it, too.

However, Ben also knows that as much as he’s adjusted to it, there are men who are becoming distrustful, aggravated by the unending waves of Noise, and even more offended by the responding spheres of silence from women. The quiet that had once been their birthright is now regarded as voided, unnatural pits in town.

Ben and Cillian and Jacob, among many other men are disturbed by this consensus. But there still exist enough men who _do_ believe it for it to cause general disquiet, there and not there.

\--

New World has a different atmospheric composition than Earth, which they didn’t know till later. When they had first landed, New Elizabeth’s future settlers had assumed it was either sunset or sunrise, what with the sky being a washed out yellow. The sky stayed like that for hours, though, too long for any conceivable rise or set.

At twilight it was a rusty bronze, and by night that had melted into sleepy purple-indigo. Before sunrise the next day it had shifted into tyrian. And as the sun peeked over the horizon, that too moved into a bright, bright gold streaked with persimmon and amber, breathtakingly beautiful, so stunning that everyone’s Noise was clear and true and filled with absolution at the sight of it, ‘cause here it was, what they came here for, a new chance at an old way of life, to appreciate the slow passing-by’s of days and nature’s clever creations. Ben had clutched Cillian’s arm with the sheer wonder of it; not only at the sunrise, but at the harmony Noise was in this moment and could be, the rapidfire sharing of emotions, and the unification of a people.

It had lasted all of ten minutes.

\--

It turns out that besides having a horrible germ and a different sky, New World has other inhabitants too.

\--

Farbranch and Haven and Brockley Falls and New Elizabeth and every damned settlement in their little sliver of land that they’ve claimed as their own conglomerate and-

There’s a lot of things Ben doesn’t want to think of anymore-

Mary’s pregnant now and just a year behind Prentiss, too, who had a big shy toddler, David Jr., who doesn’t have the wiliness of  his namesake but he’s just a year old (by New World standard, at least) so it’s not a point of contention. They all affectionately refer to him as Junior, just for the sake of avoiding confusion, and ‘cause Junior seems to like it.

David Prentiss Sr. was an honest sort of man and they all know it but he’s perhaps too shrewd for New World, where Noise gives him advantages beyond what any blessed human should really have. He has all sorts of unusual thoughts about making Noise a weapon, studying it further. His own Noise is bizarre enough on its own ( _A point on a circle on a point_ ) ( _I am the circle and the circle is me_ ). It unnerves everyone but in the end of it he does seem to care for the lot of them, and is a military strategist, which they’re gonna need for the- the-

It’s such an arbitrary name, _Spackle_. Cillian figures it’s from the noise their soft bodies make when they smack down dead in swamps. When Ben heard this he had said that Cillian had better shush up about the morbid bullshit if he doesn’t want to be kicked to the couch and Cillian agreed it wasn’t really the most conducive pillow talk and then they moved on to more conducive pillow talk and then-

Well. That’s irrelevant now. Ben isn’t even allowed to think about it much.

\--

Mary has busy fingers, fingers that she’s forcing to stay still on the table.

“I want to join the Answer.”

Ben stares at her open-mouthed, and it’s Cillian who speaks first: “Mary… trust me when I say I ain’t mean no disrespect, but yer _eight months pregnant_. There’s- there’s no way.”

“I just- I feel so useless, sitting around, and Jessica Elizabeth’s been roundin’ up us girls and she says we can fight if we need to and use our Quiet to ambush-”

“Ambush?” says Jacob, finally. “ _Ambush_? Mary, you just admit a minute ago you don’t even know if those creatures mean harm, whaddya mean, ambush?”

“And yer _eight months pregnant_ ,” adds Cillian helpfully.

She colors in the face. “Jacob, Jessica’s been telling us-”

“Who gives a damn about Jessica? We need to wait and see-”

“ _Mayor Elizabeth_ has been telling us we need to address the issue. I’m not gonna run off and hurt no one yet, just do stock, discuss strategies for protection if we need ‘em.”

“And what about what David Prentiss has been going off about?” says Ben. “He says the Spackle aren’t gonna hurt us, probably stay in their swamps and we have no business there anyways with the crocs. Why are you trying to pull yerself into Jessica’s war with David?”

Her lower lip wavers and then she starts crying and collapses inwards on her shoulders. Cillian rushes forward to make sure her tummy doesn’t bump into the edge of the table as she sits down, and Jacob walks over slowly and rubs her on the back in circles, looking on the edge of something himself.

“Oh, Jesus,” she sobs. “I just want a safe place for my baby, I _need_ a safe world for baby, is that so bad?”

“That makes more sense to me than you know, Mary,” says Ben as sympathetically as possible, making his way over and sliding his hand over hers. “But we have to wait and see. Elizabeth and Prentiss are playing a hard game and they’re tryna make all of us players, pawns. We shouldn’t have to choose sides for the safety of our very kids. Don’t get pulled into this.”

She hiccups, takes a sip of water, and tries to calm. “Don’t get pulled into this,” she echoes.

“You’re a smart one, O’Connelly,” says Ben quietly, playfully, and Mary smiles.

\--

Todd Hewitt is born a fat and healthy baby in the hot sticky summer and even though he’s chubby he’s still a tiny thing. Mary holds him for a long time, silent and adoring, while Todd stares up at her cross-eyed. He’s passed to Jacob, who coos at him, Noise splashed pink with pride and happiness.

Ben rocks Todd in his arms a bit, reveling at how light he is, and his fingers are so tiny, like caterpillars. Another  halfer, one he and Cillian saw years before he was made. When it’s Cillian’s turn, he grumbles a bit about how he doesn’t want to hold Todd on account of the newborn being ugly (as they tend to be), but his Noise says _What if I drop him? He’s so small_ and _What if I hurt him by mistake?_ and _What if he cries and hates me?_

Ben shakes his head, kisses Cillian on the cheek and passes Todd over gently, gently, like the way Ben speaks and walks, and then Cillian’s holding Todd and looking down at him, scared but also in awe.

“My _God_ ,” he utters once, and they all can’t help but agree.

\--

Mary writes for Todd in a handsome leather bound journal. Ben doesn’t ask why, since he knows it’s because she suspects more and more each passing day that she won’t be there by the time he’s grown enough to read.

The Spackle War starts officially a week after Todd’s born.  Jacob dies in service perhaps two weeks after that.

Ben and Cillian are then constantly at Mary’s house, running and helping her with the baby, trying to keep her company, and she often takes it with grace. She continues writing just as fervently (if not more) and then she one day says that it’d really be easier for all of them if they just merged their farms, which made a good deal of sense to both Cillian and Ben.

Within a few months she’s moved into their house, bringing the baby with her. Todd’s Noise is meaningless blubber, more noises and smells and sensations than anything else. It bothers Cillian, but Ben loves it. It’s not disorganized and chaotic like grown men Noise. It has a stream like flow to it, a lack of overthinking, everything in the world broken down into simple feelings. It briefly reminds Ben of Jacob, and he realizes at Mary’s sad smile when she takes Todd from him for his nap that it probably reminds her of him, too.

\--

The Answer start dying- the Mayor says it’s because of Spackle, and they all believe that, for a while, but then it stops adding up around the time Jessica Elizabeth’s corpse makes an appearance.

Then Prentiss is the head of town and neither Ben or Cillian can even wrap their minds around it ‘cause David was never really cruel but now he’s, oh God, no.

The two of them fuss more over Mary and Todd than ever and they’re effin’ terrified and the worst part is they can’t tell which women are committing suicide and which women are going by force so they can’t even tell whose fault it is, Prentiss or Elizabeth or the Spackle, who, who-

\--

Todd’s crying, in the room over, and his one year old Noise is sending the taste of milk, the feeling of his pacifier in his mouth, the honey clover smell of Mary’s hair.

Ben walks over. He picks up Todd, bouncing him and going “Shh, shh,” trying his hardest to make his noise a low Buzz.

Todd asks, “Ma?”

Ben shakes his head and Cillian makes a horrible wracked noise from the main room. There’s a loud bang, as if he’s punched something. “Ma’s away right now,” Ben says softly, smoothing Todd’s feathery dark hair.

Todd calms down as Ben forces his Noise to be centered on the twinkling melody of music box lullabies, hints of Mary’s singing voice dropping in and out- _Early one mo-o-rning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing…_. He pets Todd’s hair once more, kisses him on the forehead and tucks him back into his crib.

It had gone like this: A knock at their front door. Covered-up Noise, no emptiness outside- a party of all men, no women. Ben and Cillian both knew what this meant. So did Mary. Key difference: She accepts fate.

“We know our rights,” spat Cillian at Prentiss’s officials. “She ain’t need to listen to the likes of y’all.”

“Cillian, please,” Mary said unruffled and good-naturedly. “I’m sure these nice men are gonna return me fit as a fiddle by sundown.”

No, they weren’t, thought Ben. They all knew it. The men knew that they knew it, too. Ben and Cillian’s Noise was full of images of the cemetery, too many new graves for women, images of ladies going into the town hall and not coming back out. To this, the men smiled, their Noise replying with _She’s a goner_ and _They deserve it, stinkin’ Eves, every last one o’ ‘em_ and _They need to fall so we don’t_.

“I’ll be back by sundown,” repeated Mary, and to her credit, her voice did not waver. “Don’t cause any trouble.”

“Best follow her advice,” agreed one of the men- Hammar. “Trouble won’t be good for no one.” One image of Ben and Cillian motionless on the ground struck everyone’s Noise.

Still, this was very nearly not enough to restrain the two of them when Mary’s eyes darted to Todd’s room, where the youngest boy in the whole town slept.

A picture of Todd in Ben’s head became a promise in Hammar’s Noise, and the following image was beyond horrifying. Mary’s jaw set, the only indication through the entire altercation that she’d been bothered in the slightest.

That’s when it dawned on Ben and Cillian, both at once. Why they can’t try to fight like the rest of the honorable dead. ‘Cause if they’re gone, then Todd is, too.

“Take care of him,” she said softly, as if reminding them to keep an eye on Todd for just the next few hours. She pondered for a moment. “Take care of yerselves too.”

This is the closest to a goodbye they’re gonna get. Ben swallowed a lump in his throat, nodded, moved forward to clasp her hand tightly and gave her a parting kiss on the mouth, while Cillian simply squeezed her into a bumpy hug.

“We’ll be seeing you,” said Cillian coolly, to both Mary and the men, and Ben thought that that’s perhaps one of the bravest things he’s said yet.

\--

Todd isn’t an easy toddler to run after, isn’t an easy child to reason with. The strangest thing is hearing an infant’s Noise slowly transform and gain form as the years pass, and both Ben and Cillian find that Todd’s is defined by confusion.

This is understandable. He’s not old enough to know how to control his Noise to some degree, it just spills out of him in waves and waves, no filter, no sieve. He gets overwhelmed by other people’s Noise at times, finding it hard to concentrate on both what they say from their mouth and what climbs out from the haze of their mind. He’s also lacking in information he dearly wants. The hardest is the years before he’s quite old enough to go to the measly school but is grown enough to be able to formulate real questions, to be asking things that give Ben and Cillian pause. His head is clearly trying to piece things together, to understand the world of chaos around them.

The helpless nakedness of his Noise is an accommodating quality when trying to find out who broke the nice china or got into the box of sweets late last night. Todd can try and school his face into innocence as hard as he pleases, but his Noise reveals all, no chance for a lie to have a running chance.

Cillian likes Todd’s Noise because it’s honest. Ben likes Todd’s Noise because it’s innocent. And Todd hates it ‘cause it’s both.

\--

All the adults in the town know what’s going on between Ben and Cillian, which is known, which is fine.

(Real adults, though, none of that thirteen-years bullshit that Prentiss has been slowly enforcing, which is another matter entirely, another entry on Ben’s _new_ list of reasons that New World was a horrible idea.)

They’re all survivors of the spaceship, and those that didn’t figure when onboard found out soon enough when they landed. There are, of course, men who don’t give the slightest damn, men who laugh bawdily but in respect when learning about it, men who nod and wink and point to themselves to show watered-down but acceptable solidarity.

There are also men who are disgruntled by the thought of it, weary to be around the Moore-Boyd tryst, frowning and sneering at the sight of Cillian’s hand brushing the small of Ben’s back, men who shake their heads and men who just can’t seem to comprehend it at all.

The deciding factor, of all things, is Prentiss. And Prentiss doesn’t care, doesn’t blink at the nature of Ben and Cillian’s relationship, meaning he wouldn’t be mighty pleased if men went and killed two of his citizens without what he thinks is due cause. So; no one dares harass them.  

The uncomfortable agreement becomes this: If they don’t make a public fuss, then no one else will, either. They’ll keep the affection in the privacy of their home. No one will be the wiser. It’s better this way, for everyone.

The more difficult problem is the one of Todd, who’s just started going to school and looking at vids and finding out what a woman is and what she’s “created for”. While the men in town can be trusted to be cooperative, children can’t. Kids can be cruel; kids can talk to parents who have breaking points.

Kids can tease Todd, bully him, and he’s already having enough of a wallop as it is, being the youngest in the entire town.

Todd doesn’t think to ask Ben or Cillian why they sleep in the same bed or why they touch each other casually a bit more often than usual or why sometimes he hears their Noise full of love for the other. He doesn’t find it strange, yet. So these are the small indulgences Ben and Cillian allow themselves.

At night Cillian kisses the center of Ben’s warm palm, smells the ripe grass and sweat and dirt there, keeps holding it against his face while keeping his Noise shrouded just enough for an awake six year old Todd creeping around the house outside their bedroom. Ben smiles and thinks to himself with hope- one of the few things he has left- that perhaps release will be granted, yet.

\--

When Todd’s almost eight Ben and Cillian make the executive decision to teach him how to read. The school wasn’t doing so well, a shoddy excuse for education if anything. Rumor was Prentiss blamed the books, even, that he might burn all the books down.

He wouldn’t, remarks Ben at the time, rolling his eyes. David Prentiss? Pulling a _Fahrenheit 451_? Absurd.

This is all very funny until Prentiss does indeed do exactly that, and Cillian finds poetic irony in the fact that Todd himself will probably never know about _Fahrenheit 451_ , or _Animal Farm_ , or _The Pearl_ , or _Jane Eyre_ , or _Cat’s Cradle_ , or _The Crucible_. Books that he and Ben had to read in the schoolhouse on Earth growing up, books he found tedious and annoying but ended up being evocative when he was older, and books they left behind on Earth, part of a culture they left behind on Earth, part of a life they left behind on Earth, that Todd would never get the privilege of living.

Todd begins to feel the difference between his two fathers. It manifests in the lessons of learning to read; Ben and Cillian switch off to give each other breaks, and Todd has to suffer through one hour of looking and copying the alphabet, practicing its sounds, spelling small words, around twice a month.

Ben is patient, kind, encouraging. When he asks, “How do you spell cat, Todd?,” he doesn’t immediately shake his head no when the first letter out of Todd’s mouth is “K”. He makes rhyme games, and his square finger moves over sentences in a steady movement, needed reliability for Todd’s wandering eyes.

On occasion he makes little web graphs, trying to show Todd how all the words are connected, how one word can mean another word can mean another word, which is a bit over Todd’s head but appreciated for small moments of epiphany at a time. Even Ben’s Noise is helpful in the lessons, because it says exactly what his mouth says, gives Todd pictures of objects and letters superimposed over them so Todd can make the connections.

Cillian’s another thing entirely. He tries- oh, does he try- to be as willing to wait as Ben, but Todd finds that the more he gets wrong, the more frustrated Cillian gets, the louder his Noise, the harder it is for Todd to concentrate. It isn’t ‘cause Cillian’s a bad person, he’s just not a good teacher, and definitely not that great with kids either. It’s just Cillian. He’s a rough person, like sandpaper and burrs, where Ben’s smooth river pebbles and polished wood.

What’s worse is the sheer guilt that comes off Cillian’s Noise at the end of lessons, when Todd’s thrown a tantrum and refuses to even look at a book, scowling at his crossed arms; it’s guilt because Cillian wishes Mary was there and because he wishes Jacob was there, because he wishes he could’ve-

And that always gets cut off there, doesn’t it? Todd’s asked enough times before about his ma to know that the germ killed her and nothing could’ve been done about it, but when he feels the shame coming from Cillian in unhappy pulses, he just wonders, sits and wonders and scrunches up a small forehead, if that’s all there is to the story.

\--

By the time Todd’s eleven the premise of the school’s long gone and his reading lessons have been cut short, too. Ben and Cillian reluctantly nod and promise they won’t try this sort of tomfoolery again, no sir Mr. Mayor David Prentiss.

However. They don’t get off scot-free.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moore, but you know I can’t allow exceptions,” says Prentiss amiably, standing at their front door. “One week in jail for violating the law.”

Cillian’s Noise is frothing with rude words, pissed off by the arrest, pissed off by how orderly the Mayor’s Noise is. Instead, he gets out, “I don’t think that’s a mighty good idea, sir. We can’t run a farm with just me and the boy.”

“Do you want to join him, Mr. Boyd?”

Cillian shuts his mouth at that, ‘cause leaving Todd alone for a week at the farm is a surefire way for the entire place to burn down.

“I’ll be back soon, don’t you worry,” Ben says, near-kind. “Just one week. Get some quality time with Todd, y’hear?”

Cillian’s face is hardened, but he has the decency to tilt his head slightly. Ben’s ushered out by O’Hare and Prentiss, weak handcuffs clinking around his wrists as Cillian shuts the door.

A few moments of silence before Todd suddenly appears, leaning out from behind the hall corner.

“Where’s Ben?” he asks immediately, looking mistrustful, standing in that ready-to-dash way little children do.

“Out,” says Cillian.

“Then why was the Mayor here?” Todd retaliates almost as quickly. _I saw him, don’t lie._

“We were having a chat,” Cillian says, careful. “They’re out for lunch.”

“And how long is that lunch gonna be, huh?” Todd jeers. “A week?” _Told you not to lie!_

Stinkin’ eavesdropping little boy.

“Don’t use that tone of voice with me, Todd,” Cillian concedes. “We have a farm to run for  week on our own. You better know yer chores are gonna be harder.”

“Chores!” exclaims Todd. “Chores, chores, chores, that’s all you ever care about!”

“It’s _necessary_ ,” Cillian explains through clenched teeth. “How else d’you think this place is gonna get on?”

“I don’t care, it’s not _my_ farm-”

“Don’t give me that, boy, it’s yer farm as much as it is Ben and mine’s-”

“Ben lets me have breaks in my work!”

“Yeah, well, too bad for you ‘cause I don’t have that sorta kindness-”

“Damn right you don’t, yer nothing like Ben, how are you and him even friends, that’s what I wanna know-”

“No cussing, boy!” Cillian shouts, frustrated that it’s barely been five minutes and he’s already arguing with an eleven year old.

He breathes deeply. Todd stares at him with angry squinted eyes. _Ben, where’s Ben, Ben come back Ben._

“We’re gonna split the work Ben usually does,” Cillian says after a while, willingly calm. “I’ll take the work you can’t do yet or don’t have the strength for-”

“Do _too_ , Ben says I just have to practice m-”

“Todd Chayton Hewitt,” is all Cillian has to say. Todd goes quiet in record time. _Chayton Hewitt, Chayton, Todd Chayton-_

“Like I said,” Cillian continues, “I’ll take the labor work. You gotta take care of more animals now. Theresa looks like she’s gonna give birth any moment now, but we can deliver the calf together. You do the milking, too, and for the love of God, Todd, learn how to herd the sheep right, or I’m gonna have to getcha a dog.”

“I don’t want a dog,” sniffs Todd.

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbles Cillian. “Now let’s get a head-start on the work.”

\--

Cillian’s drenched in sweat and wants desperately to take a shower, but he can’t, not yet.

“Come out of the fields for less than a _minute_ and she’s already going at it!” he complains to himself, forgetting Todd’s leading him towards the barn under the plum evening sky.

Todd scowls. “It’s not like I decide when the ruddy cows go and pop out a baby-”

“I wasn’t saying you did, Todd,” Cillian snaps.

“Oh.”

They make their way through the wheat slowly as the tiny stars blink into existence. Cillian wonders why they haven’t made up new constellations yet for New World night. He wonders if Ben remembers the old zodiac. What sign was he again? Pisces? Todd’s probably a Gemini or a- whatchamacallit- Cancer, and Cillian himself was a Scorpio-

“What’s a zodiac?” asks Todd all of a sudden, inquisitive.

“What did I tell you about listening too close?” Cillian objects.  Todd falls silent again. _Well sorr-y that yer thinking so clear, hard not to listen, God._

“Sorry,” Cillian says awkwardly. ( _Get some quality time with Todd, y’hear?_ ) “I can’t explain it as good as Ben, but on Old World we had, y’know, a different night sky. Different stars and formashuns. People used to, uh, make pictures out of the stars, and since the sky changed  through the year, when you were born a particular constellation- um, star picture- would be up. That’d be yer star sign. There are twelve of ‘em, that’s the zodiac.”

“Huh,” says Todd. _Weird._  “Okay. Why does that matter though?”

Cillian shrugs. “Well, got it in their heads that yer star sign can be used to see yer future, or how you get along with other people ‘pending on their star sign.”

“Is that true?”

“I dunno.”

“Hm,” finishes Todd as they reach the barn. They can both hear the cow making frantic little _moo’_ s, its Noise bursting with _Cow baby! Cow! Baby! Cow is here! Baby of cow!_

“Cow Noise is something else,” says Cillian sarcastically.

Todd lets out a laugh that even he’s surprised at, how it jumps out of him.

They share a weird look, a look of peace between them, which happens near-never.

Todd then picks up where he started when they left the fields. “There she is,” he says, pointing to the loudest cow. They’re making their way over when Todd makes an idle comment that Cillian doesn’t agree with much, not at all.

“Bitch’s fit to burst.”

“Language, boy!” he shouts, and his Noise is scarlet with all kinds of outrage, enough that Todd realizes he’s gone too far.

“What?” Todd asks, genuinely confused. _What’d I do? What’d I do?_

“Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again,” Cillian says lowly. “I don’t wanna see it in yer Noise, I don’t wanna hear it out of yer mouth.”

“What, bitch?”

“What did I just say?!”

“What makes it worse than eff or damn or shit or hell? _Davy_ says it-”

“Don’t go listing off every cuss you know, that isn’t gonna make you look any better-” says Cillian, exasperated and furious all at once. “And I don’t give a damn what Davy says, that boy’s rotten-”

“Oh, so I can’t say damn but you can? That’s fair, yeah, and Davy’s almost a man, actually-”

“Well as far as I remember, young Todd, you ain’t a man, so that’s a moot point, ain’t it?”

Todd’s shaking with anger ( _young Todd, young Todd_ )and Cillian can tell it’s exacerbated by the fact he doesn’t know what _moot point_ means and doesn’t wanna ask but knows that Cillian knows he doesn’t know because of _effing_ Noise.

“Look,” says Cillian finally, calming down. “It’s a word used to hurt women. Lady-folk. It’s dirty and rude and we’re better than Davy Jr. Prentiss, alright?”

Todd shifts in his stance, but doesn’t say anything, just pads over to the pregnant cow.

“I _said_ , we’re better than Davy Jr. Prentiss, _alright_?”

“Okay,” responds Todd dully, already coaxing the cow to move back, positioning her.

“Oh, Todd, please, don’t be difficult-”

“You just yell at me, all the time.” Todd says, not making eye contact, hands clumsy with childhood as he adjusts the cow again. “You never- explain to me, what I’m doing wrong, it’s just you yellin’, all the bloody time.” _I don’t like it when you yell, it makes me mad and-_

Cillian doesn’t know what to say, his Noise floating with fragments like _I’m just not patient, just not good with kids, sorry, boy_ and _It’s ruddy hard bringing you up and trying not to think about, well-_ and _We can’t all be Ben, can we?_

In the end, he doesn’t apologize, though he knows he should. The new calf is named ‘Zodiac’ by Todd, which is an awful name for a cow. Cillian doesn’t mention it.

\--

Two days later Cillian’s at the county jail, muscles aching up a storm from the rigor of the past few days.

“Come on, sir,” he grits out to the junior sheriff of the town. “It’s been almost three days, work’s hard, and it ain’t like Ben’s been causing you trouble, is it?”

“Sorry, but yer work ain’t my problem,” says Davy Jr. leisurely. His legs are kicked up against his desk. “And a sentence is a sentence. His Honor the Mayor left you with a pretty easy punishment, from where I see it.”

Cillian clenches and unclenches his fist.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Ben peacefully from behind bars in his tiny cell, the only occupied cell, too. “It’s not too bad.”

Cillian stomps over from Davy’s desk to the closest he can get to Ben without trying to force the bars into his body. “They feeding you alright Ben? You got water? That bed good?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Ben hums, discreet, Noise murmuring _Could be worse._ His eyes look haggard. “But you look worked to the bone, Cillian. Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m managing,” Cillian says, waves a dismissing hand.

“What about Todd?”

“Todd’s…” Well. They hadn’t been so much fighting as serving each other the silent treatment. “Todd’s fine, I s’pose.”

Ben gives him a saddened look. “If you say so,” he says, not commenting on Cillian’s Noise, which is one of the reasons Cillian likes him so much.

“I’ll be back in two days,” Cillian offers.

“Please, I’m fine. Just handle the farm.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Ben breathes. “I’m proud of you and Todd both. I’ll see you, okay?”

“Bye, Ben,” Cillian says softly, running his hand slowly over Ben’s fingers on the steel bars, before moving away. The comment about pride was the closest Ben gets to guiltripping, and that’s a sign to try to amend things with Todd.

He’s gathering his things to leave when he realizes Davy’s watching him, no, Davy’s looking twixt him and Ben in rapidfire motion, a shrewd look all across his face, the white glow of realization fast approaching his Noise.

“Got something to say, Mr. Junior Sheriff?” starts Cillian, cautious, threatening. Ben’s shaking his head in the corner of his vision, Noise saying _Cillian, it’s not worth it, not worth it, he’s barely a teenager._

“Take care of yerself,” is all Davy replies with.

Cillian looks at him for a bit, looking for a lie, but finds that the boy’s Noise is too muddled to pick from, all calculation and wonder.

“You have something- here-” Cillian says, gesturing to right above his lip.

“Huh?” says Davy, rubbing his hand across the area. “What? ”

Cillian grins. “Sorry, it was just yer mustache.”

Davy’s face twists in humiliated wrath, and Cillian suppressed a hoot of laughter and leaves before he causes more damage.

\--

“I’m _tired_ of milking the ruddy cows and seeding the crops and feeding the pigs the slop,” whines Todd loudly.

Cillian tries not to roll his eyes. “That’s too bad, because yer gonna be doing that for some more days, Todd Hewitt.”

“You’re so- _awwgh_ ,” groans Todd, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Whaddya want me to say?!” asks Cillian with open palms as Todd tramps away, Noise sirening _I hate him I hate him no breaks no sympathy wish Ben was here_. “’S the truth!”

Comforting was never his forte, anyways.

He sighs and goes back to making preparations for lambing the sheep. So much for trying to get Todd and him to get along. Though he isn’t calling Todd back, so he’s kinda giving the kid a break. In a way.

“Todd,” he calls out after fifteen minutes. He can’t hear the boy’s Noise.

“TODD,” he yells loud as possible. No response.

“Dammit!” he mutters to himself, dropping the equipment and bounding out of the barn and towards the house. But he doesn’t have luck there, either, Todd’s din Noise not present.

“TODD,” he yells again, more livid and more scared and making his way through the wheat again, “TODD, WHERE ARE YOU?”

_Could be lost could be hurt could be killed could be dead why didn’t I keep an eye on him shouldn’t have let him had a break what’s the hell’s wrong with me where is he_

That’s when he feels it, a feeble call- can’t tell if it’s Noise or actual talking- come from the edges of their farm, where the forest starts.

He’s running towards it before he even knows it. “TODD,” he shouts, afraid of what he’s gonna see, “TODD-”

He finds him lying on the ground just a way in the forest, eyes opening and closing slowly in a way that doesn’t look good.

“Cillian,” mumbles Todd.

“Todd, Todd, are you okay? What happened?” he asks, getting on his knees by him, searching his body and Noise for signs of major disaster. “Aw, Todd, what happened?”

Todd’s Noise is embarrassed. “I was climbing the tree,” he says, pointing to the one right by them. “I fell off. I’m- I’msorryCillian.”

Cillian almost misses the last part, lost in relief but also upcoming fury. “Huh?”

“I don’t know how it happened, I just lost my footing, and I fell on my shoulder, it really hurts, Cillian, can’t move it, hurts too much-”

Cillian looks again and finds that Todd’s shoulder shouldn’t bump out that way. “Oh, shit,” he says under his breath. Dislocation.

“Listen,” he says carefully to Todd. “I’m gonna have to set yer arm back in place. It’s gonna hurt. Can you take that?”

Todd nods, biting his lip.

Cillian delicately gets a hold of Todd’s forearm, and with a heave, pops it back in place. Todd screams for only a second, then’s gasping on the ground, trying to settle.

“You want me to carry you back?” Cillian says, forehead creased in worry.

Todd’s quiet for a bit, then: “Yeah.”  

Cillian picks him up with dirty gloved hands, cradling him by the back of his knees and shoulders. God, if he isn’t big now. In a few years Cillian won’t be able to do it.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” Todd asks confusedly as they get to his room after the wordless trip.

“Yes,” says Cillian. “You oughta know better than climbing on trees too high for you. But,” he adds, as Todd tenses and whimpers at his arm being jostled, “For now I’m gonna focus on yer arm getting better. That’ll be in two, three weeks.”

“I’m sorry, Cillian,” says Todd again, ashamed. But his Noise is grateful.

Cillian humphs to himself, sets Todd down on his bed, and sets off to find a makeshift sling.

\--

He gives Todd light work for the next work, things he can with just his right hand, little  jobs to make it easier for Cillian to manage the huge load. It’s not as bad as it could be, since they already seeded a third of the field, and can do the rest when Ben’s back. It’s more taking care of the animals than anything.

To Todd’s credit, he doesn’t complain even half as much, willing to try to help Cillian. Cillian, in turn, keeps both his temper and pride reigned in.

\--

“What does Chayton mean?” Todd asks the night before Ben’s scheduled to come back.

“Hm?” says Cillian, looking up from the dinner he’s making. Which had been Todd’s job as of late, but cutting carrots with a faulty hand is never a good idea.

“Chayton. My middle name.”

“Yer ma gave it to you,” replies Cillian.

Todd looks unbelieving. “That’s all yer gonna tell me?”

Cillian glowers for a second. “Use that disrespectin’ tone again and I won’t be saying nothing about yer names.”

“Fine. Sorry,” says Todd, petulant, arms crossed as much as he can with one arm aching. _I’m not really sorry, nooo-_

Cillian finishes serving the both of them- potatoes and bean soup- before touching the subject again.

“Chayton means _falcon_ , far as yer Ma told me,” he says. “It’s Sioux.”

“What’s Sioux?”

“It’s, uh, it’s a language, language group, I think. Of one of these tribes of natives on Old World. Yer ma and her family were from the Catawba Reservation.”

“Huh,” says Todd. _I don’t get it._

Cillian tries to figure how to fit in hours of history class into a few sentences. “Well, on Old World, we had a few different countries and continents-”

“Yeah, I learned about that in school-”

“No interrupting.”

“Sorry,” Todd says again, but this time not looking bothered.

“Anyways, so there was this country United States, but before it was that it belonged to the people already living there, the Native tribes, but then England and France wanted that land- those are other countries- so they fought for it, using a lot of power and cruel methods, and then the land was theirs.”

“So what happened to the Natives?”

“They were forced into smaller and smaller plots of land to call theirs. Reservations. Eventually the States started some legislat-chur on it again so they were protected to some degree, the folk and the culture.”

Todd looks at him, self-conscious.

“Legislat-chur is a bunch of laws and rules,” Cillian quickly adds to spare him the discomfiture of asking.

“I knew that,” says Todd. _Kinda._

They eat in silence for a bit before Todd asks a different question. “Y’know, in a weird way, that reminds me of the Spackle.”

“The Spackle are monsters, not humans,” Cillian says, a bit harshly.

“How do you know that’s not what the England and the France thought-”

“The _English_ and _French_ , Todd, not the-” goes off Cillian, pinching his brow. Not now, not before the last day.

Todd shuts up for a while again, but not for long. “So. How did you and Ben know my ma and pa?”

Much easier question.

“Well, we all lived around South Carolina- that’s a state in the United States- and Mary lived on the Reservation, but she and her family went to the local Church and that’s how Ben and her met. I think their families made friends too, so they were always together. I got to her through Ben, he started invitin’ me places with them in our town. That’s how I met yer pa, too.”  

Todd plays with his fork on the plate, thoughtful.

“Stop that,” nags Cillian, frowning.

Todd drops his fork, but goes for another question. “So then how did my ma and pa meet?”

Cillian rubs the back of his head. He had been hoping Ben was going to be victim to this asking.

“Uh, yer Pa’s family did business with yer ma’s- he was one of the few white families that the Reservation trusted, I think, and so Mary and Jacob talked a bit when the Hewitt family was in. They started meeting up in the market and they fell in love. Somehow or other. Yer pa asked yer ma’s pa for blessing and he gave it to them and they married on New World.”

Todd doesn’t say anything, but his Noise goes, _I had a grandpa?_ all wondrous.

“And a grandma, and uncles, and aunts, and more grandparents. We all did.”

“Wow,” goes Todd, as if the thought never occurred to him before. “So, then, how did you and Ben meet?”

“Eat yer food.”

“I _am_.”

“Well, I want that plate to be finished in the next five minutes,” he says darkly. If he’s honest, he’s just stalling for time, finding this skirting too close to topics Todd can’t hear.

“Please? I just wanna know.” Todd asks again. His Noise is more daring. _I don’t get how yer friends_.  

Cillian glares at him, wonders for the umpteenth time how they’ve been raising him and haven’t knocked some discipline in him. “Ben and me went to school together, so I knew about him since I was a kid. Then we got jobs together on MacInerny’s farm on Old World and we got along, just serendip-tous. He persuaded me to go to New World, actually.”

Todd looks at him.

“Serendip-tous means by chance,” Cillian says.   

“No, I-” _–Didn’t know that either-_ “Just, how? Yer both so different. How?” _Ben’s Ben and Cillian’s… Cillian._

Cillian takes a sip of his milk, licks his lip. “Some things just can’t be ‘splained, Todd.”

Well, he can explain it fairly decently, but it’s not for Todd to know.

“But-”

“For Pete’s sake, finish yer food and stop with all this yapping.”

Todd understands that’s the end of the discussion, and draws back, knowing that he’s gotten a decent amount of information from Cillian without casualties. Which is novel in itself.

\--

Cillian picks Ben up from the county jail at eight AM sharp. Davy’s there, rubbing his sleepy eyes, opening the cell with his big ring of keys.

The Mayor’s there too, in polished boots.

Ben and Cillian do not rush each other for an embrace once the door opens, but Cillian does casually drape his arm around Ben’s shoulders all friendly-like, which is enough for them.

“I hope you learned your lesson, Mr. Moore,” the Mayor says as they stand there, like he’s joking, but a glint of severity peeks through his cleanly-shaven face.

“Of course, sir,” Ben says, sounding awfully frank. The Mayor smiles.

Davy, even through his torpor, is eyeing up where Cillian’s blockish fingers curves around Ben’s shoulder. He tilts his head, picking the stray threads on his uniform’s cuff.

“We’ll be off, then,” Cillian says stiffly.

“As always, a pleasure,” says the Mayor, tipping his hat towards them.

Ben nods, and Cillian does too, after a moment.

They move towards the door, and as they leave, Ben catches the Mayor sending a purposeful look towards an unknowing Davy, who’s not grown enough to see how he’s blatantly he’s ogling them, how lost his Noise is, and Ben thinks, _Poor kid_.

\--

“Ben!” shouts Todd gleefully, running forward as soon as he spots the two of them making their way over the hill. “Ben!”

“Hello, Todd,” Ben says. He staggers back only a little when Todd crashes into him for a hug. “How’ve you been holding up?”

 _Treats me like a real person_ , Todd’s Noise says about Ben, swelling with happiness as he moves back. “Wrecked my arm some, but I’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

“That’s good,” Ben comments. “I missed you, missed you both.” _Longest week of my life._

Todd gets shy with the declaration, but squeaks, “Missedyoutoo,” in one breath and pretends like he didn’t.

“Alright, alright, don’t strain yer arm, boy,” Cillian grumbles. His heart is tugging in two different directions, ‘cause it’s hard to be joyful about your family but also envious and jaded at the same time. _Todd would never charge at me like that, never._

Todd scowls and turns off, ears red. Ben looks at Cillian with pointed disbelief. He shakes his head, as if Cillian’s the one not understanding a thing.

Ben leans in to kiss him on the cheekbone when Todd’s far off enough to not hear, and that’s how this little family works in a nutshell.

“Cillian,” Ben says as they walk down. “I was thinking, in the jail.”

“Oh?”

“Davy Jr.’s close to being a Prentisstown man-”

“Yeah, I know, Todd’s mentioned.”

“Sure. But you’ve seen that boy, right? He’s unkind, but with a pa like that…” Ben shivers. “I just thought about Todd. Todd’s only one, one and a half years behind Davy.”

Cillian nods somberly. “We’re not going to let Todd be a Prentisstown man, ‘course.” They had decided this by the time Todd was learning to talk, years ago.

“I know. But I don’t think it’s gonna be as easy as telling Prentiss that we don’t want Todd involved in that kinda stuff. He won’t take no as an answer. He has- Cillian, I think he has plans.”

“What kinda plans?” Cillian asks dubiously. “What’s he gonna do with a buncha traumatized kids who’ve been forced into murder? With a buncha cowardly men who willingly _allowed_ murder?”

Ben’s silent after that. “I’m not sure,” he says, restrained, “But I don’t like what I’ve heard. I’m starting to think we’re going to have to let Todd leave the town, before his birthday. Run away.”

“But-” says Cillian. He’s flabbergasted at the thought. “But then we can’t go with him, Prentisstown men aren’t allowed to go-”

“I know, but- but we were only going to sneak around with him in the first plan, anyways. How do you think Prentiss is gonna feel about us coming back after sending off the last boy to settlements he’s banned from? It would never have really worked.”

“So we’re gonna have to throw Todd out on his own?” Cillian asks, voice small. “He’s a runt yet, Ben, he’d never survive-”

“Not now, not today, no,” Ben agrees, squeezing his shoulder. “But he’s on his way to learning how to handle himself like a self-respecting human. Give it time.”

Ben’s Noise is so sincere, so genuine about the notion. Enough that Cillian says he’ll consider it.

And by the time Todd’s arm is all healed up, there’s a small trap opening under some of the wood panels in the prayer room, host to one rucksack with a leather book, some clothing, and a banned map.

\--

“You know I love you, right?” Cillian sometimes asks through the years, and Ben always sniggers, tosses his arms around Cillian’s shoulders, says, “I dunno, I feel like I know, but maybe you should make sure I do,” and Cillian rolls his eyes but also kisses him soundly and holds him as if trying to make a point of reassurance. Ben’s shoulders shake with withheld laughter, ‘cause even though his Cillian’s everything from rude to nasty, his soft spot’s always been his halfer family, and that’s him- Ben- and Todd, and even someone as rowdy as Cillian can’t hide the painstakingly tender look he gets on his face when he thinks about them.

“Yes, of course I know,” Ben will eventually sigh back into his mouth, and both of them smile happily, lock fingers, and wish in passing that Todd could understand, too.

\--

“You know who he is,” Ben states mildly to Cillian when they clean dinner table and Todd’s stormed off to his room to ready for bed. Yet another meal ended with a shouting match between Todd and Cillian, Todd yelling nonsense about how he hates the new dog and is probably gonna name it “Poo” on account of how that’s the only thing the damned mutt ever really talks about, and that he’s gonna be a man in a year, and that once he is he’s never ever ever gonna talk to Cillian and his stinkin’ maw again. Ben wishes that this was the worst of the argument, but it’s hard to beat Cillian at hurtful words.  

“Huh?” Cillian says, brow wrinkled in confusion, lost in thought about the fight.

“Todd, as in.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“He’s our son, y’know.”

A strange look comes across Cillian’s face. “No,” he says slowly. “He’s Jacob’s and Mary’s. We take care of him.”

“He’s Jacob’s and Mary’s, sure, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t our kid, or that we aren’t his fathers. We raised him like our child, like any other parents. You understand that?”

Cillian bites his lip, conflicted, and makes a noncommittal sound. Ben feels more than hears the petrified curve of Cillian’s Noise.

“Todd loves you,” Ben adds benevolently, quietly. “You’re a good father. Sometimes we have rough patches, and that’s okay.”

“Okay,” says Cillian all unsure-like. Ben’s heart melts.

“C’mere,” he beckons, till Cillian’s in his arms and can’t hide his apprehension on his face. “Look. It’s been hard. He’s growin’ up, but he’s still the youngest ‘un in town. He wants to feel big, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t our Todd. Give him some leeway.”

“I know,” Cillian confesses, slumping over in Ben’s hold. “I effin’ _know_. It’s just- he’s gonna be gone in a year, Ben. We’re gonna have to pack him off and let him go and figure it out on his own. You think Mary wanted that for her son? He’s so- he’s so rash, impet-chous, doesn’t do a damn thing I tell him to. How’s he gonna get on?”

Ben grins, jiggles the shoulder Cillian’s buried his face in. “You know who he reminds me of?”

“Shut yer mouth,” Cillian finally groans, releasing his full weight on Ben, who stumbles and laughs and sinks to the ground with the both of them.

Ben lifts Cillian’s face, pecks him on the mouth and pats his jaw. “Don’t worry. He’s gonna be fine. Have faith in him.”

Cillian’s in the middle of going to kiss Ben some more when there’s a loud clatter from the kitchen, and they both whip around to look; a shamefaced Todd stands before them, trying to sneak extra dessert from the cupboard.

“Uh,” says Todd, but his Noise doesn’t carry shock, and his eyes run over Ben’s hand under Cillian’s shirt like it’s nothing. It’s like he doesn’t register it at all.

“What, pray tell, do you think yer _doin_ ’, boy?” Cillian questions dangerously when his heart stops thundering. Ben is trying his very hardest not to blush red as he inches his hand out.

Todd’s voice is the kind of squeaky only puberty can grant. “I was- I mean, I barely got any dessert, ‘cause I left before I could really-”

“You didn’t get no dessert ‘cause you were mouthin’ off yer elder!” exclaims Cillian, and for one moment he’s blazingly furious. Then it all escapes him in a _whoomph_ of Noise.

“Well, go on then,” he finally sighs, tired. “Better off someone eat it than it rot.”

Todd smiles in relief and stammers out “Thanks, Cillian,” in respect, but in the window of miniscule lag between Noise and Speech, Cillian and Ben both hear, “Thanks, Da.”

Now Todd blushes, embarrassed. “Er, I’m just gonna- uh, go, now-” and scampers away with hands full of banana bread. He’s leaving a trail of crumbs behind him.

“TODD!” Cillian yells after him. “YOU GETCHYER HINEY BACK HERE AND CLEAN.. aw, eff it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ben agrees optimistically, and kisses him again.  

\--

“ _Married_ ,” Ben repeats to Mary, breathless with delight. “Mary, yer gettin’ married, can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can, and I can hear you thinking about it all over yer Noise, Ben, and I’m starting to think yer more excited than I am.”

Ben grins and Mary sighs, goes back to adjusting her hair.

The ceremony is loud during the vows, but that’s Noise for you. Ben can say this, though: it’s all well-meaning, bursting with hopefulness, full of tinkling chimes and blooming wildflowers. Easier to not get bothered by it that way.

“When’s this over?” Cillian mutters to him during the reception, tugging uncomfortably at his tie, brows furrowed.  

Ben laughs. “Aw, baby, don’t like wearing the monkey suit?”

“Ben, I swear to God,” Cillian threatens, and Ben hoots only harder, freckles rearranged as his face scrunches up.

So maybe they can’t have this kind of celebration for themselves; the next best thing to do is enjoy it regardless.

\--

 _I am Todd Hewitt, I am twelve years and twelve months old. I live in Prentisstown on New World. I will be a man in one month’s time exactly…_ comes drifting down the road all loud and clamorous and vulnerably public, so Cillian knows who it is, even if he can’t see him yet, even if he wasn’t listening to the words in the Noise.

“And just where do you think you’ve been?” Cillian yells as soon as Todd shows up over the edge of the hill. He immediately bristles at the sight of Todd bumbling down like he hasn’t got a care in the world- they have to run a farm, damn it, he’s here in grease trying to fix the ruddy fission generator himself; and it’s almost the boy’s birthday, as if that’s not hectic enough for him and Ben-

“I was in the swamp getting apples for Ben,” Todd says angry-like. Cillian’s gaze doesn’t falter. Todd has no bag of the fruit of his labor, so he’s lying, which Cillian finds is almost a relief, ‘cause Todd’s shit at that and sometimes you need to lie to survive so at least he’s practicing.

“There’s work to be done and boys are off playing,” Cillian grunts, dipping to peek back at the generator, which makes an unfortunate sounding clunk. “Dammit!”

Todd doesn’t like that, no. His Noise spikes feverishly. “I said I wasn’t playing, if you’d ever listen! Ben wanted apples so I was getting him some ruddy apples!”

Cillian looks back at him dryly. He is in sore need of that fib-practice. “Uh-uh. And where might these apples be then?”

Todd’s shocked silent, but his Noise isn’t. _And of course I’m not holding any apples, am I? I don’t even remember dropping the bag I’d started to fill but of course I must have when_ -

“When what?” asks Cillian, distantly disappointed that Todd wasn’t lying after all.

“Quit listening so close.”

Cillian sighs. “It’s not like we ask you to do so much around here, Todd”- _that’s a lie_ \- “but we can’t keep this farm running by ourselves”- _well, true_ \- “and even if you finish all yer chores, which you don’t” – _yes I do, workin’ me like a slave over here-_ “we’d still be playing a catch-up to nothing, now wouldn’t we?”

Todd’s head is drifting. _That’s true too, the town can’t grow no more, it can only sink, and help ain’t com-_

Cillian says, “Pay attention when I talk to you.”

“Tenshun!” barks the dog Cillian bought off Prentiss last year to stay on his good side.

“Shut up,” goes Todd.

“Don’t talk to yer dog that way,” says Cillian.

 _I wasn’t talking to my dog_.

Cillian glares at him and Todd glares back some more and Todd’s Noise goes _It’s never been so good with Cillian, not never, Ben’s always been the kind one, Cillian’s always been the other one-_ and that _hurts_ , that effin’ bloody _hurts_ , ‘cause he’s trying, but life’s still hard and he tries to make do but he can’t really help it if he has no patience, can he- _but it’s got worse as the day approaches when I’m finally gonna be a man and won’t have to listen to any more of his crap-_

Cillian closes his eyes tight and takes a deep breath through his nose, because it’s hard to concentrate on hiding his own Noise that bubbles with the thought that if things go as planned, that day’s never gonna come.

“Todd,” he starts, trying to be serious.

“Where’ Ben?”

Cillian sours at that, still wounded, but covers it up: “Lambing starts in a week, Todd.”

“Where’s Ben?” Todd goes again, and damn if that isn’t the most obnoxious thing.

Cillian tries to be calm. “You get the sheep fed and into their paddocks and then I want you to fix the gate to the east field once and for all, Todd Hewitt. I have asked at least _twice_ before now.”

Todd’s Noise is indignant. He leans back, says in a raspy, sarcastic voice, “’Well how was yer trip to the swamp, Todd?’… ‘Well, it was fine and dandy there, Cillian, thank you for asking.’” Cillian groans. Not this again.

“‘Didja see anything interesting out there in the swamp, Todd?’” Todd continues. “‘Well, funny you should ask, Cillian, ‘cause I sure did see something interesting which might explain this here cut on my lip that you ain’t asked about but I guess it’ll have to just to wait till the sheep are fed and I fix the _goddamn fence_!’”

Cillian reigns back the lecture, and settles for a simple “Watch yer mouth. I don’t have time for yer games- Go do the sheep.”

“ _Awwghgh_ ,” says Todd and then, “Come on, Manchee,” a good deal crosser as he walks away.

“The sheep, Todd,” Cillian calls out after him. “The sheep first.”

Todd mumbles something, but Manchee’s excited now by the newly ignited Roar. “Sheep! Sheep, sheep, Todd! Sheep, sheep, quiet, Todd! Quiet, quiet in the swamp, Todd!”

And for a moment, when Manchee thinks it, and Todd remembers it, Cillian can _feel_ it again, that quiet, that silence-

“Shut up, Manchee,” says Todd.

“What was that?” Cillian questions further, his voice on edge as he sits back on the generator. Todd and Manchee turn around cautiously.

Manchee woofs, “Quiet, Cillian.”

“What does he mean ‘quiet’?” And it’s rude, Cillian knows it is, but he searches a bit around Todd’s noise, trying to glean something-

“What do you care?” says Todd impulsively, turning around again. “I got ruddy sheep to feed.”

“Todd, wait,” falters Cillian after them but then the generator beeps and Cillian cusses “Dammit!” and reckons that he probably was projecting on Todd’s Noise with the void n’ all, wouldn’t make sense for Todd to be bumping into a lady any twenty miles in any direction from Prentisstown.

He sends asking marks at Todd as the boy goes off, ‘cause he should make sure, and that cut on the lip business is actually sorta worrisome, and then he lets it go ‘cause it’s probably nothing.

(That’s his first mistake.)

Ben’s out in the field doing his own work when he feels the skittish red Noise of Todd bump around his skin, and he shakes his head, because that means Todd and Cillian have been fighting again, and he knows that Cillian’s going to feel nothing but bad if Todd leaves in a month without making amends. _Early one mo-o-rning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing,_ he makes his Noise sing, for Todd’s sake, to relax.

“Ben!” barks Manchee, bounding around the irrigation setup, and Ben scratches him between the ears, willing for Todd to follow.

“Hello, Manchee,” he says to the dog, and then, “Hello, Todd,” once he appears too.

He’s looking down at the ground, kicking a stone. “Hi, Ben.”

Ben can hear Todd listening intently to his own Noise, can hear his thoughts replayed all funny, a looping tape of _Apples, Cillian, Yer getting so big, Cillian, itch in the crack of my arm, apples, dinner, Gosh it’s warm out,_ and he lets Todd hear, since it lets him settle down some.

“You calming down there, Todd? Reminding yerself who you are?”

“Yeah,” says Todd slowly, and then in a rush, “-Just, why does he have to come at me like that? Why can’t he just say hello? Not even a greeting, it’s all, ‘I know you done something wrong and I’m gonna keep at you till I find out what it is.’”

“That’s just his way, Todd,” Ben says, knowing that this doesn’t excuse it from being a _difficult_ way. “You know that.”

“So you keep saying,” mumbles Todd sullenly, plucking some wheat and sticking it in his mouth.

“Left the apples at the house, didja?” Ben asks, even though he knows Todd didn’t.

Todd can tell that Ben can tell.

“And there’s a reason,” Ben continues, “There’s a reason which ain’t coming clear.”

Todd stands there as Ben does a cursory look through his Noise, and Ben tries to make it as polite as possible. Reading Noise itself is hard enough; remembered images and senses are always dulled, with portions missing at times, so making out what you’re looking at is a task  in itself.

The pastor. The swamp. Muted yelling. Fresh pain. “Aaron?” he asks, removing his hand from Manchee’s head.

“Yeah, I saw Aaron.”

He did that to yet lip?”

“Yeah.”

“Sunuvahoor.” He frowns, twinges of memories of a kinder Aaron ticking against his head as he steps closer to Todd. “I just might have to have words with that man.”

“Don’t. Don’t. It’ll be more trouble and it don’t hurt that much,” says Todd, and it’s almost sweet that he’s trying to lie when his Noise is blaring _Lip hurts lip hurts swelling tender bruise cut lip ouch_.

Ben holds Todd’s face by the chin, eyes the cut. “That sunuvahoor,” he says again, quiet with anger. He grazes the cut with a finger, and Todd winces, flinching off.

“It’s nothing,” he says again.

“You stay away from that man, Todd Hewitt.”

“Oh, like I went running to the swamp _hoping_ to run into him?”

Todd baiting him instead of Cillian makes it clear how riled up he is. Ben refuses to engage. “He ain’t right.”

“Well, holy crap, thanks for that bit of info, Ben,” Todd starts off again, and Ben wonders how the boy’s gonna be ready in one month and suddenly Todd stops and stares at him funny and oh no, he heard it in Ben’s Noise, _one month, one month_.

“What’s going on, Ben? What’s going on with my birthday?” Todd asks.

Ben smiles, anxiously at first and then quickly manages genuine. “It’s a surprise, so don’t go looking.”

He bends down, makes his face level with Todd, who’s not that much shorter than him anymore, and who turns his head away because he’s grown shy with his affections.

“Todd?” questions Ben, feeling unease in the other’s Noise.

“Quiet,” woofs Manchee. “Quiet in swamp.”

Ben flits his eyes between Todd and Manchee, feels his Noise get syrupy slow, a countermeasure to panic, a homage to how much he misses Mary. “What’s he talking about, Todd?”

“I saw something,” Todd sighs, unsure. “Out there in the swamp. Well, we _didn’t_ see it, it hid, but it was like a rip in the Noise, like a tear-”

Ben startles, starts rummaging fiercely through Todd’s Noise, trying discern if Todd means- surely he couldn’t-

“Ben?” Cillian calls urgently as he approaches. He’s heard the din from Todd’s Noise, no doubt. “Todd?”

“Is it spacks?” Todd finally asks, naïve as ever. “Is it the Spackle? Are they back?”

“Ben?” goes Cillian again, this time yelling.

Todd looks all sorts of alarmed. “Are we in danger? Will there be another war?”

And then it dawns on Ben how little Todd knows, and then it dawns on Ben that there’s a lady-creature out there right _now_ near _Prentisstown_ , and it dawns on Ben that Todd’s Noise, despite the boy’s best efforts, always is a siren and so easy to read, like a book, no way he made it through town without having one of the Mayor’s men pick up on it.

“Oh, my God,” he says, almost to himself. “Oh, my God.”

And then, with Cillian running up the path and Manchee looking twixt the two of them and Todd full of childish disquiet, Ben says, “We have to get you outta here. We have to get you outta here _right now_.”

“Don’t think it!” Ben yells at Cillian who’s finally close enough to converse. He repeats it to Todd, at both of them. “Don’t you think it neither. You cover it up with yer Noise. You hide it. You hide it as best you can.”

“What’s going on?” Todd says, nervous, trying to pretend he’s not.

“Did you walk through town?” asks Cillian.

“ _Course_ I walked home through town,” Todd snaps. “What other effing way is there to get home?”

 _Fuck_ , curses Cillian, they aren’t prepared yet, they aren’t ready, oh Jesus- and the damn dog’s barking up a storm too, thanks-

He looks at Ben, and it’s quite the handy party trick, to not to think about something but still talk about it. “We’re gonna have to do it now.”

“I know,” says Ben. Defeated.

“What’s going on?” Todd says again, louder, looking between the two of them. “Do _what_ now?”

Cillian looks at Ben, and Ben looks back, before saying slowly, “You have to leave Prentisstown.”

Todd’s gaze doesn’t stop skittering. “What do you mean I have to leave Prentisstown. There ain’t nowhere else on New World _but_ Prentisstown.”

Cillian and Ben look at each other again, share a silent thought.

“Stop doing that!” sputters Todd, getting more disconcerted.

“Come on, we’ve already got yer bag packed,” says Cillian, motioning towards the house.

“How can you already have my bag packed?”

There’s no time for these questions. Instead, Cillian turns to Ben. “We probably don’t have much time.”

“He can go down by the river.”

“You know what this means.”

“It doesn’t change the plan.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” thunders Todd, and Cillian almost forgets himself and wants to chastise him for cursing. “WHAT FUCKING PLAN?”

“It’s very, very important you keep what happening in the swap outta yer Noise as best you can,” Ben tells Todd quietly.

“Why? Are the spacks coming back to kill us?”

“Don’t think about it!” Cillian barks. “Cover it up, keep it deep and quiet, till yet so far outta town no one can hear you. Now, come on!”

He starts running to the house, to the prayer room, hoping that Ben doesn’t humor Todd’s questions yet and gives him an explanation later.

He busts in through the back door as Ben and Todd catch up, starts ripping off the floor paneling where the designated spot’s supposed to be, while Ben gathers the dried foods, makes the medipak, bustling back and forth while Todds stands there, stupefied.

“I ain’t leaving,” Todd declares openly. They keep moving. “I ain’t leaving,” he says again.

Cillian manages to get the bag free from the niche. Todd glances at it, freezes. “Is that a book?” he says, like he can’t believe it. “You were s’posed to burn those ages ago.”

Ben ignores him, leafs through the creamy pages of the book, Mary’s handwriting, things he and Cillian never dared read for Mary’s sake. He puts it back into the rucksack.

They both turn to Todd. “I ain’t going nowhere,” he repeats, looking between the two of them, frightened, irate.

That’s when there’s a knock at the front door.

Thirty interminable seconds pass before Manchee breaks it with, “Door!” In a haste, Cillian grabs him by the collar and maw with each hand, forcing him quiet.

They stare at each other, wondering what to do, when another knock comes, this time accompanied by a voice. “I know yer in there.”

It feels so painfully like when Mary was taken away, that for a moment, Cillian can’t breathe.

“Damn and blast,” says Ben.

“Davy ruddy Prentiss,” Cillian agrees. Junior’d grown up to be a real pain in the ass. ( _Got even worse when he became a Prentisstown man-_ )

“Do you not think I can hear yer Noise?” bellows Davy through the door. “Benison Moore. Cillian Boyd.”

A pause, like the bastard’s savoring it. “Todd Hewitt.”

Todd crosses his arm, sneers, “Well, so much for hiding.”

Ben looks at Cillian, who understands the message and lets go of Manchee. “Stay here,” he tells them, and heads to the door.

“What do you want, Davy?” he asks conspicuously once he opens the door, trying to cover over the mumbling of Ben behind him.

“That’s Sherriff Prentiss to you, Cillian,” Davy sasses. Cillian near rolls his eyes, but his gaze drops.

Junior’s holding a rifle.

“We’re in the middle of lunch, Davy,” Cillian says slowly. “Come back later.”

“I don’t think I will. I think I need to have a word with young Todd.”

Cillian can feel Ben’s Noise whisper with worry, and he tries to convey a message in the next sentence. “Todd’s got farmwork. He’s just leaving out the back. I can hear him go.”

 _Please go, Jesus_.

“You take me for a fool, Cillian?” says Davy, almost smirking, and it drives Cillian up the wall, ‘cause it feels like just yesterday this little brat was tugging on Cillian trousers and asking for extra apple juice, stealing their farm’s eggs until Todd caught him at it and Mayor Prentiss gave Davy a good telling-off.

“Do you really want an answer to that, Davy?” Cillian says soberly.

“I can hear his Noise not twenty feet behind you. Ben’s, too.” Davy tries to make his Noise lighter, accommodating. “I just want to talk to him. He ain’t in no trouble.”

“Why you got a rifle then, Davy?” says Cillian.

The Noise goes back to sinister. “Bring him out, Cillian. You know why I’m here. Seems like a funny little word floated out yer boy into town all innocentlike and we just want to see what it’s all about, that’s all.”

“We?” asks Cillian.

“His Honor the the Mayor would like a word with young Todd.” Davy throws his voice behind Cillian, adding, “Y’all come out now, you hear? Ain’t no trouble going on. Just a friendly chat.”

Cillian hears Ben and Todd moving towards the backdoor, a minute too late.

Manchee goes, “Todd?”

“Y’all ain’t thinking about sneaking out the back way, are ya?” calls Davy after them, looking over Cillian’s shoulder. He squints his eyes. “Outta my way, Cillian.”

“Get off my property, Davy,” Cillian says.

Davy scoffs. “I ain’t telling you twice.”

“I believe you’ve already told me about three times, Davy, so if yer threatening, it ain’t working.”

Their Noise clashes (somewhere Cillian hears Ben and Todd and Manchee scurry into the kitchen) and then Davy tries to throw a punch and Cillian only feels a little bad when he hooks him in the mouth, grabs the fallen rifle, and repositions it to point it at fallen boy soldier.

“I said get off my property, Davy,” Cillian says, an edge to his voice as he watches Davy’s bloodied lip.

He’s a dead man walking, he realizes. Threatening the Mayor’s son, making Todd flee outta the damned town. He knew he was risking it with the latter already, but at least he had still had a month left before. He can’t think about it clearly, though.

“You know this answers the asking, doncha?” says Davy, who then rubs his jaw, spits a bit, and continues. “You know this ain’t the end.” He looks at Todd in the eye and Cillian wants to smack the butt of the rifle on the back of Davy’s head, _don’t look at my son, don’t even think about him_ \- “You found something, dincha, boy?”

Junior calling _Todd_ a boy is a joke in itself. Cillian readjusts the rifle. “Out,” he states.

“We got plans for you, boy,” says Davy, smiling all ugly, blood staining the crevices of his teeth. He makes his way standing. “The boy who’s last. One more month, ain’t it?”

Cillian cocks the rifle. He can feel Todd watching him. He can feel Ben watching him.

“Be seeing you,” finishes Davy, trying to sound tough and his voice jumping three octaves near the end, strolling casually out the door and then sprinting out of sight through the fields.

Cillian slams the door behind him, Noise a mess. “Todd’s gotta go _now_. Back through the swamp.”  

“I know,” says Ben, pained. “I was hoping-”

“Me, too,” Cillian says, ‘cause it would’ve been nice to run away with Todd too, but that had only the smallest chance of coming true even with the original plan, and sure as hell wouldn’t work now.

“Whoa, whoa,” interrupts Todd. “I ain’t going back to the swamp. There’s Spackle there!”

“Keep yer thoughts quiet,” Cillian reminds him, disregarding his objections. “That’s more important than you know.”

“Well, since I don’t know nothing, that ain’t hard,” goes Todd, raising his voice. “I ain’t going nowhere till someone tells me what’s going on!”

“Todd-” begins Ben.

They don’t have time for this. They don’t have time for this. “They’ll be coming back, Todd,” Cillian tells him, serious as can be. “Davy Prentiss will come back and he won’t be alone and we won’t be able to protect you from all of them at once.”

“But-”

“No arguing!”

“Come on, Todd,” pleads Ben. “Manchee’s gonna have to go with you.”

“Oh, man, this just gets better,” Todd snarks, and he still doesn’t know the stakes of this, doesn’t get it that he’s gonna effing be killed or be made to kill if he doesn’t split.

“Todd,” says Cillian. This is their last moment, him and Todd. He considers and then lets Todd feel it in his Noise, the grief, but doesn’t let him know its grief over Mary, over Jacob, over all the people killed, over saying goodbye to Todd, over being sure he himself is gonna be dead within the hour.

“Todd,” he enunciates once more, and he grabs Todd and hugs him with all his might in that crushing way of his, trying not to think about ‘ _It’s never been good with Cillian_ ’ and ‘ _Cillian’s always been the other one_.’

Todd knocks his sensitive lip on Cillian’s collar. “Ow!” he yelps, pushes away, too incredulous to feel the gravity, the finality to the contact.

“You may hate us for this, Todd,” Cillian murmurs to him, “but try to believe it’s only ‘cause we love you, alright?”

“No,” says Todd, and his voice warbles, and Cillian- Cillian _sees_ him, sees him like he’s four again and he’s knocked his shin on some toy he probably forgot to put away, on the verge of a meltdown. “It’s _not_ alright. It’s not alright _at all_.”

Cillian doesn’t grace this with a response, turns to Ben instead. “Go, run, I’ll hold ‘em off as long as possible.”

“I’ll come back a different way,” Ben responds, almost business-like. “See if I can thrown ‘em off the trail.”

He steps forward and Cillian steps forward and for a millisecond he wonders if it matter anymore whether they kiss in front of Todd or not, but reaches out his hand, clasps it tight with Ben’s.

(That’s his second mistake.)

One last look is passed between them. It says: _I know yer probably not gonna be here when I come back_ and _Make sure Todd gets away safe_ and _I’m sorry, I love you, I love both of you, more than anything in this wretched place._

Ben pulls away, gives a last nod to Cillian, grips Todd by the arm, and mutters, “Come on,” before dragging him back, back, away.

Cillian flexes his fingers. He picks up the rifle again.

He glances back as Todd staggers backwards out the door and in that instant, Cillian’s Noise says _Goodbye_ , _Goodbye_ to Todd and Ben and Manchee, and Todd opens his mouth to say something back, maybe _I’m sorry_ or _Why?_ or _Eff you_ or _Bye, Da_ , but then the door shuts in his face and he’s gone.

Well. That’s that.

Cillian fingers the trigger of the rifle restlessly, waits for Davy to show up, and less than five minutes later there he is again by his door but now  in company of the Mayor Prentiss and Hammar and Collins and the rest of the inner circle.

Also, he doesn’t knock this time.

“Cillian Boyd,” Davy mouths, curling his tongue around every syllable. “Charged on terms of threatening a sheriff, and not complying with the law.” He raises his eyebrow. “Sentence: Death.”

Mayor Prentiss, why, Mayor David Prentiss just looks amused, smiles pleasantly and looks at Cillian from behind Davy. “I hate to say that my son’s right, Boyd. Put the gun down, we’ll have a chat, maybe avoid that outcome?”

Davy’s Noise deflates at that. Cillian doesn’t falter, raising his gun. “I ain’t having no chat with nobody.”

Prentiss shrugs, conceding. “Then at least tell us where that boy of yours ran off to, surely you can manage that.”

“No one’s damn business, that is,” Cillian grouses, ‘cause it isn’t.

“You’re making this much more difficult that it need be,” sighs Prentiss.

( _Used to be a good man/Gave me extra portions on ship/Loved his wife/Killed his wife?/ Liked Mary’s pies/ Respected the Spackle/ Cried when wife died/ Killed the Spackle.)_

“Please stop,” says Prentiss, unamused, and Cillian pulls the trigger, getting Hammar right in the thigh.

(Last mistake.)

“Fuck!” shouts Hammar, and all the other men ( _no Davy_ ) move to converge on Cillian, and he readies the rifle again, rolls his shoulder to recover from the recoil, can’t tell if he’s imagining Ben’s Noise in the distance ( _Cillian Cillian Cillian)_ when-

 ** _STOP_** , goes the the Mayor’s Noise, neatlike as always, just loud and hurtful in the head. Everyone freezes, backs off, and Cillian’s going to fire again (feels asking marks grazing his Noise, Ben-made asking marks), but-

 ** _CILLIAN BOYD_** , stomps Prentiss’s Noise again, except this time only in Cillian’s head and it’s a thousand times worse and Cillian falls to his knees in shock, feels metal birds pecking all the sides of his skull.

“I said, stop,” Prentiss murmurs once the rifle’s been relinquished by Collins. Hammar is sucking air in through his teeth, lying on the ground. Two other men are holding Cillian down.

“Are you sure you don’t want to cooperate, Mr. Boyd?” asks Prentiss, sounding as if he’s trying to reason with a small child.

“Never,” growls Cillian.

“Well,” says Prentiss, straightening his tie. “Davy, go ahead.”

Davy goes, “Huh?”

“You said you wanted to kill him, didn’t you?” tests Prentiss, giving a sidelong look at his son. “Kept going on and on about how much you wanted to shoot our friend Cillian, what a useless fool he was, so here he is.”

Davy pales, stammers defensively, “I know what I _said_ , but, but, that’s not professional, right? Ain’t he gotta get a trial first? Right?”

“As the Mayor, I’m overriding the need for a trial. We can finish this business now,” offers Prentiss, tone benign. “Quickly, boy.”

“I’m not a boy!” cries Davy, over-aggressive.

Prentiss smiles. “Prove it.”

Cillian feels ill, feels- hell- feels _bad_ for Junior. Davy stares at his father, turns and gawks at Cillian.

Davy’s Noise doesn’t sound any apologetic. But it’s frightened, and Cillian in his own way understands, doesn’t entirely blame Davy when he picks up the rifle with sweaty hands, levels it with his head, his Noise deafening, and Cillian’s is too, despite the Mayor’s earlier blow, and their Noise, their Noise all sounds like one Noise blending together like-

_Aw Ben please help/ I’ve shot a man before, I did it, I can do this/ Todd you boy my boy/ Where’s Hewitt the sunuvahoor/ Cillian Moore, Ben Boyd/ Boyd and Moore, they were like me, like me / Todd O’Connelly, sorry Mary sorry sorry/ Did Hewitt know/ Yer eight months pregnant/ Gun in my hand/ Never done this with a-/ trigger where’s the-/ It’s ok me neither/ Pa watching me/ Never been so good with Cillian, the other one/ Have to shoot/ ‘Cause we love you, alright/ I’M SHOOTIN’, I’M SHOOTIN’ / Oh, Je-_

“Well done,” notes Prentiss, cadence running close to mocking. Davy doesn’t realize. “Did that feel good?”

Davy drops the rifle, rubs his clammy left hand down his pants. Eyes Cillian and the pool of blood emerging from under his wavy black hair. “’Course,” he lies.

(And, maybe, in the oddest and smallest way, it had.)

“Burn the place,” the Mayor comments mildly, and he leaves.

\--

By the time Ben’s back it’s in flames, and he can’t get in, and on another world even _that_ wouldn’t be enough to convince him to not try and get through but here, here on New World he can’t hear Cillian’s Noise, can’t hear any man’s Noise ‘cept his own, and you can’t contend with that kinda argument.

\--

Two weeks of running and creeping and straining for rumors of a boy and girl on the run while grieving for a lost lover, now, that takes a toll on you.

More hours of hiking through forests and sitting down your son and telling him what really happened to his Ma and how you allowed it to happen, now, that takes a toll on you.

Getting shot by Sheriff- Davy- Junior, whatever, getting shot in the gut by a boy on a horse and rolling over into the bushes and moaning as your son and a girl from another world escape, now, that takes a toll on you.

Caught in a sleepy limbo, Benison Moore washes back and forth from shore to shore, lets Noise flow over him, feels The Sky, The Return moving under his skin and into his frothy veins, forgets his own name and remembers again, he is The Source, a silky strand in the spiderweb of New World, a bridge between The Land and The Clearing.

Unconscious, Benison Moore is burdened by the weight of many tolls, each slowly unraveling and melting away.

\--

Ben remembers a time when Todd would hear _Early one mo-o-rning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing_ and get pink in the face, his own Noise both being soothed and agitated all at once, ‘cause he worries all sorts of things about being too soft, too boyish, and Ben thinks that he should’ve sat Todd down the day he heard that sort of sentiment and tell him clearly that there’s no such thing as being too kindhearted.

But maybe Todd’s learned that, ‘cause he’s sprinting, by God he’s tearing every muscle on his body to make his way through the crowd towards the song, and he’s crying, too, letting out astonished sobs as he sees Ben, like he can’t believe it, like it’s a dream so good it’s bad.

Ben gets off the battlemoore. He’s thrown back when Todd finally collides, twice as heavy as he was at eleven.

 _How big you’ve gotten_ he projects, between cries of “ _Ben_ , aw, Jesus, _Ben_ -”. _You’re as tall as me. Big as a man._

“How?” Todd asks, still clutching on to him. His face is squarer, his hair growing longer over his ears.

 _The Spackle found me,_ Ben says, _Davy Prentiss shot me-_

Todd gets a dark look on his face. His Noise is heavy, conflicted, hard to reach. “I know.”

 _Show me_ , implores Ben, and Todd does.

_Viola killed Aaron- Davy shot her- the Answer- the Spackle- Banded, banded, women and spackle- ME I DID IT-  Killed, all of them- 1017- he’s gonna kill me- Davy dead, Davy, so close, but the Mayor killed him, only son-_

Ben feels it, an all-encompassing sense of guilt coming from Todd, because he did horrifying things, awful, disgusting things. Ben can hear Cillian’s voice in Todd’s Noise, saying solemnly _And we’re better than Davy Jr. Prentiss, alright? Alright?_ And images of Todd then standing obediently next to Davy and doing things that make both of them as bad as each other no matter what Cillian says.

 _It’s all right, Todd_ , says Ben. _It’s all over. The War is over._

And Ben forgives him, his child, who’s been through war and grief and loss so early and has fallen and gotten back up at least twenty times, his son who’s head is full of _Viola_ and _He sent Davy in with an empty rifle_ and _Ben, Ben, Ben._ How could he not forgive him? How could he not?

He gives Todd absolution, the few and far between feeling he’s had through his own lifetime, because if anyone needs it- it’s him. He sits in the middle of it, soaking it up, being freed.

“Ben?” he says, perplexed after a moment. Only now noticing that Ben isn’t talking through his mouth anymore. “What’s going on? Yer _Noise_ -”

 _There’s a lot we need to talk about,_ Ben thinks, says.

Todd is still mystified. But he’s too caught up in the emotions, face breaking into a smile which Ben returns, too engrossed to feel someone else coming-

“Todd?” says the Mayor Prentiss. Ben gets a look at him before Todd can turn around to, doesn’t like what he sees. Still the same man in the same upright position and same neat hair, but with a sleeker uniform, no Noise.

And he’s watching them. Watching them, but not deviously, like usual, not like he’s trying to find a way to turn this whole thing against them, but like he’s- he’s-

It reminds Ben of another moment, another time. _Todd would never charge at me like that, never-_

Oh, Lord. The Mayor’s _jealous_.

It clicks in seconds after that- ‘cause the Mayor looks at Todd, Ben’s son, like he’s Prentiss’s son, too, like he belongs to President David Prentiss Senior a little bit as well, same as Davy.

Ben doesn’t know how to feel about that. Doesn’t know if he should be fuming, or bemused, or neither.

But then he looks at Todd and the way Todd looks at Prentiss, just the way his Noise goes bigger, gnashing and glimmering, pricked up ears and twitchy hands, and Ben realizes - even if Todd doesn’t know it yet- that Todd really _is_ a little bit the Mayor’s son.

He ends up feeling accepting.

\--

When it’s all over- and Ben means all over, Ben means when the Mayor’s gone and Todd’s alive _and_ awake- something he had no doubt would happen ‘cause The Land’s healing methods never failed him- and they’re working together to make Haven right again, building up the decimated structures, that’s when Todd, so _big_ now, asks him shylike if he can talk to him privately in a his tent.

 _Sure,_ goes Ben, surprised. Ben can see Viola watching curiously with her pretty almond-eyes ( _another halfer, how many of us are around here?_ , he thinks fondly) from outside as they move inside, out of sight. Todd’s Noise is full of her face (but it often is).

A blind boy is watching, too, watching through Noise from next to Viola, his hair shaggy and fair. Ben doesn’t mention it.  

He sits on his cot, while Todd sits on his study chair across him, and it reminds him of twenty years ago and a ship and his one-in-particular. But that’s not now, and right _now_ Todd’s seventeen by Earth standards, fifteen and a half by New World standards, and if that isn’t enough to take in in the first place.

 _What do you wanna talk about, son?_ he asks, and Todd gets happily embarrassed at that, Ben loves him so much that it aches.

“It’s about Cillian,” Todd gets out awkwardly.

_Oh?_

_Er, yeah,_ goes Todd, shifting into Noise. He’s been practicing and slipping back and forth as per everyone else trying to master it.

 _Well, you can ask,_ Ben tells him. _I have no more secrets I need to keep from you anymore._

 _You and Cillian,_ he says, pauses. “You and Cillian, I just- I never realized before, but I was thinking, ‘bout us, and we were a family, right?”

_Yes, of course._

_Sometimes, I used to_ , continues Todd, flustered, _I mean, I didn’t get it before, I never, I never thought anything was different, but you and Cillian, Cillian and you, you two were, uh, “-_ Were you? _”_

 _You’re gonna have to ask more clearly than that,_ says Ben, but he knows what Todd’s getting at, can feel the asking marks all around the perimeter of his Noise.

 _Poor kid_ , thinks Ben, but this time he’s smiling.

\--

He misses Cillian.

Addendum: He misses Cillian, but New World provides a small comfort; though he’s exhausted all memories of he and Cillian together, others sympathetically offer their own in the blur of Noise: times when they ran into Cillian in the market, times when they saw Cillian working at the farm as they passed by, times when they talked to him over business.

Ben has two favorite kinds of memories in this:

Ones where people extend moments when they saw he and Cillian walking side by side, or heads close together in town, muttering, snickering, arguing, or Cillian glancing Ben’s waist with his hand in public for the quickest of moments before dropping, or Ben holding Cillian carefully by the jaw and saying it’s because he saw a cut on Cillian’s chin (he didn’t), or Ben and Cillian nineteen years old and at MacInerny’s farm on Earth and rough-housing in fields, pushing back and forth, roaring with laughter.

The other kind is times from when Cillian’s on New World but with Mary or Todd, Mary sticking yellow dandelions in Cillian’s hair and Cillian scowling but not saying anything on account of it being Mary and secretly he doesn’t mind, or Cillian holding Todd balanced on his hip while he reaches up for an apple, singing embarrassedly “Early one mo-o-rning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing…” to an intent Todd, or Cillian kissing Ben square on the mouth under a tree while Mary and Jacob sit by, delighted with a tiny newborn Todd in their own lap (that had been a good picnic. Ben’s only a little horrified to think that someone saw).

Todd gives him many of those memories, times when Ben and Cillian thought they were being inconspicuous and private at home when really no one should underestimate the curious observational powers of a young child. His Noise gives Ben long ago thoughts, like  that he _likes_ his fathers, his Pa _and_ Da.

Ben’s accepted and dealt with Cillian’s passing. He doesn’t use the memories as escapism, or relief. It’s just another journey in learning about how he fits in New World, how Cillian used to fit in the Clearing, the Land, and the portion of Ben and Todd’s chest made for family.

\--

Cillian thinks that he’s not too late to his first day an MacInerny’s farm, but when he comes up jogging his apparent partner is already there, talking to their boss.

“Sorry,” he pants to Mr. MacInerny as he reaches talking distance, “Sorry, I got caught up in- uh-”

The other worker looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and Cillian doesn’t even blame him, because what’s he gonna say? He got caught in _traffic_? He ran the whole way here on wet packed dirt roads.

“-Work at home, apologies, won’t happen again, sir,” Cillian finishes and kinda drops over, putting his arms on his bent knees and trying to catch his breath.  

“Alright, son, don’t work yerself up,” grunts MacInerny. “I’ll show you two pups yer work in ten minutes, try and get settled by then.”

“Thank you sir,” says Cillian, wiping damp black hair out of his eyes. He digs for an elastic band in his pocket.

MacInerny walks up his creaky wood porch and into his house. This leaves Cillian and the other guy outside in the humid sweaty air, under overcast clouds and fields the that bright shade of green that shows up right before a storm breaks.

Cillian’s breath eventually slows. He turns to take a good look at his partner and- oh, wait- why, it’s-

“Benison, Benison Moore, right?” he asks.

“Was wondering if you’d remember,” says Benison. He extends his hand. “Cillian Boyd?”

Cillian shakes his hand gruffly. “That’s me.”

“Weird coincidence, huh,” Benison says, eyes faraway, mind on the rain.

They share a few moments in silence. Benison asks, “How’s life been since grade school, Cillian?”

Smalltalk. God. Cillian _hates_ smalltalk. Especially when it sounds condescending, fake. “Well, I’m here, so obviously I didn’t go to college _, Benison_ ,” he replies sharply.

Cillian simultaneously thinks, _This is why I don’t make any friends_.

Benison looks at him, refocusing his attention from the sky to Cillian. And he doesn’t even look hurt. His face is all clear and tranquil, curly mess of hair just about sloping into his eyes, and he’s looking at Cillian, studying, but not prying. Cillian thinks, briefly, that he’s real pretty for a man.

“Please, call me Ben,” says, well, Ben.

It’s so unlike the confrontation that Cillian’s expecting that he says, “Alright,” before he realizes.

Ben looks at him some more, and adds, “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, okay, Cillian?” as he puts out his hand facing upward, glances up again briefly.

And his voice, his _voice_ sounds so sincere and placid, so smooth and non-grasping, it’s like laying down in a brook on a hot day, nothing like what Cillian’s used to in the jagged tumble of his life, and he can’t help but feel like he’s needed that brand of evenness for a long time.

“That makes sense,” Cillian says mindlessly.

Ben breaks into a smile at him as the clouds finally break into a drizzle and start splashing into his palm.

“ _Finally, finally_ ,” he comments mostly to himself, looking at his hand and the sky, and Cillian Boyd thinks the same thing while staring at Ben Moore.

\--

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & comment if u like this fic, ignore if u get pwned every day
> 
> im on tumblr @ sadafies


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